RDA
by Forest of Zen
Summary: Three letters describe a power than can destroy worlds—or save them. As news of their losses reaches Earth and the Colonies, the RDA shifts its plans into high gear. Up against a new fleet and a new General, this time the outcome for the Na'vi is far less certain. And Jake Sully, the new leader of the Omaticaya, bears responsibility for the counterattack.
1. Chapter I: CEOs and Generals

_They lost?_

_They had help. One of the Marines went native, rallied all of the tribes that he could find. I he had a few others on his side as well—all the other members of the AVATAR program, and a Samson pilot. There were also reports of animals that-_

_We had Scorpions, god damn it! Gas, missiles, high-explosive rounds! A.M.P suits! And we get outmaneuvered by one Marine leading an army of the indigenous?_

_Sir—_

_How much did we lose?_

_One of the landing shuttles, nine tenths of the Scorpions, and all of the combat-outfitted A.M.P suits. Hell's Gate is currently being decommissioned, and all of its hardware dismantled. Most of the mining vehicles are already destroyed or inoperable, and most of the weapons are either in the hands of the indigenous or also destroyed. All living personnel are being shipped back to Earth aboard the ISV _Venture Star_._

_And our investors? What do the stocks look like?_

_Half._

_Jesus. So I'm guessing this got to the Net on Earth and the Colonies already._

_Yes sir._

_So we're down to half our monetary resources, with three more interstellar vehicles nearly finished and almost fully fueled. And eleven more on standby. _

_Sir, I-_

_I need to know what kind of ordinance we still have on Earth. Anything non-nuclear, any vehicle that doesn't drive or fly by itself, list it. I also need to know how many are willing to fly another mission back-pilots, soldiers, whatever. I'll work out the specifics later. We're going to send the three ISVs we've got._

_Sir, after this, there aren't going to-_

_Just find me the hardware and find me the men._

_Yes sir._

* * *

General Alexi Hayes studied the map with the air of a priest reading the Bible.

The projected scan showed a mass of forces at least two thousand strong, heat signatures so close together that they morphed from yellow to red. The forest concealed the source of those signatures, but he knew—Na'vi. Two thousand Na'vi, plus Banshees, plus Direhorses. The two thousand Na'vi that had managed to rout his mentor's gunships, along with the assault ship and shuttle that they had been supporting.

The map flickered with distortion. The ISV _Venture Star_ had been scanning from orbit, and the planet's magnetic field had still been strong enough to affect it.

Hayes opened his mouth, cleared his throat, and spoke.

"Play."

The scanned image flickered into motion. Quaritch's assault ship and the shuttle rolled into the picture from off on the right side, Scorpion gunships surrounding it in a classic support pattern. A quarter forward high and low, the other three quarters well spaced in back.

He scanned down to forest level, bringing up a video log of one of the A.M.P suit operators in the rear of the formation. Good spacing, all gaps filled in by support troops.

"Pause."

He waved a hand over the scan table and the advancing forces skipped forward, then froze. A bookmark showed itself in ghostly capitals at the bottom of the table: 'FIRST ENEMY CONTACT.' And slightly below, the time to engagement: 00:00

"Play."

Voice recordings floated from the scan table's speakers—Quaritch, A.M.P teams, the wing coordinator. Hayes pulled up the TACMAP, and a massed wave of enemy contacts was flooding toward the floor teams. Direhorses.

The wave was far wider than the floor team, but from the moment of initial contact the outcome was clear. He pulled the A.M.P video again and watched as rounds broke the wave in a matter of seconds. The few arrows that managed to fly hit their targets, but none penetrated the A.M.P suits, and the unsuited teams were quickly reinforced.

Back in the sky, a wave of Banshees rained down from the cliffs and ripped through the Scorpion gunships. Arrows penetrated cockpit canopies, Banshees gripped gunships and threw them into cliffs, and for a solid minute the pilots stayed nearly motionless. Hayes grimaced. He remembered a cautionary report on the Scorpion's capabilities. More than capable in ground engagements, air-to-air combat was not its ideal deployment. The guns were mounted wrong; they didn't have an angle that covered the top, and the tilt-rotors could only bring the gunship's nose up a few degrees. Coming out of the sun, the Banshee riders faced no resistance.

Quaritch should have known they would come from above. Coming from below was suicide, as was from in front. Back was out too, since the gunships could turn on a dime in no time at all. Benefits of tilt rotors.

But when the Banshees dived, Quaritch exploited the advantage. His strategy was fractured, but he had the high ground, the high technology. Ground teams pressed in, and from above the Scorpions pursued those that ran. Hundreds dead in less than a minute, and the assault force still had dozens of vehicles and thousands of rounds.

This was the sixth time he'd watched the scan. Many mistakes had been made. But with more than half the gunships and all of the A.M.P suits left, he couldn't figure out how the Na'vi had won. The scans available to the public showed no further than the last of the Direhorses fleeing from the advancing ground teams.

The wall speaker buzzed a short tone, and his secretary's voice came through, clipped and professional.

"Someone here to see you, general. A representative of RDA."

Hayes almost responded before the lights came up to half and the door hissed open. He set a hand on the grip of the pistol at his side and waited. He'd sealed the room, and only he could open it. Even his secretary didn't have the lock code.

A man stepped into view, crisply suited, blank-faced, a hint of Asian origins in his composure. Hayes' fingers slipped down further on the pistol's grip, and he visualized the motion he would use if it came to guns. Draw straight, extend arms, lock. Fire.

"How did you override the door seal?"

The man bowed slightly at the waist, his expression unchanged.

"CEO wants to see you, sir."

* * *

The shuttle was the latest in its line, a slimmed-down version of the Valkyrie meant for colony-to-colony flight. A moon shot was now a journey of hours rather than days, and Hayes spent all of it wondering what CEO wanted with him.

The Resources Development Administration had been a legend almost since its startup. Its pilot product—a new computer operating system—had dominated the field within a year. Even Microsoft and Apple had been helpless to compare. Over the next half-century it had branched into other areas: first computer manufacture, then transportation, then weapons. Ultimately, RDA had become so massive that its influence surpassed major governments. By law, it wasn't anything other than a corporation. But in its influence, it might as well rule the world.

He had thought only for a moment about refusing to go, dismissing the interruption and returning to his study. But after his career, he had developed an instinct for the politically advantageous. If CEO, the leader of the most powerful organization anywhere, wanted to see him in particular, that was something worth pursuing.

CEO. The acronym was a word in its own right now, applied to whoever happened to be leading RDA into its latest profitable venture. Most didn't even use their real name any more, preferring the prestige and power that came with the title. CEOs of the past had brought down multi-billion dollar corporations overnight, toppled major governments, and razed entire rainforests. All in the name of profit. And if success was measured in money, then CEO was richer than God.

"Attention passengers. The shuttle is now approaching the landing zone. Please fasten your seatbelts and wait for landing."

Besides him and the blank, suited man, the shuttle was empty. That meant urgency. Chartering a shuttle for a trip to the moon was simpler than it used to be, but it was still expensive. And without passengers to offset the cost, the implications were that time was of extreme importance.

What kind of meeting, Hayes wondered, was so important that it _had _to be in person?

There was no noise outside as the shuttle lowered onto its landing pad, although there was a jolt as the landing struts were received by docking clamps. Walls arced up to create a dome around the ship, and then there was a great hissing all around as air flowed in to equalize pressure.

"Thank you for flying with us today. You may now exit the shuttle."

The suited man beckoned, and Hayes followed without question.

The path was surprisingly short; out of the shuttle, then directly into the pressurized complex that was RDA's headquarters. The company practically owned the moon; they had developed the tech to fly there and to colonize it, and it was their shuttles that everyone used to travel. It seemed fitting that this should be their base of operations.

"This way."

He was ushered into a foyer that looked like it was stolen from a mansion on Earth. Hand-woven carpets, black-vein marble, and cabinets and desks made of hardwoods that had been extinct for years. Above, a reinforced dome showed a view of the stars. A secretary was tapping away at a projected keyboard, and looked up for only a second to nod at him and his equally blank companion.

"CEO is in here."

The man gestured to a door set in the center of the far wall. Hayes thanked him and walked to it, blowing out a breath before opening the door and walking in.

"Hayes. It's an honor to meet you."

He hadn't said 'sir'. Only a few people could get away with that, these days. His eyes scanned CEO with interest; he was younger than Hayes would have expected, probably early thirties, with close-cropped brown hair that was leaning toward black. His eyes were sharp, intensely focused, and vividly blue. Ice blue.

"I've been reading your service record with interest for some time now, and I must say I'm quite impressed. You are either extremely lucky or extremely intelligent, and I look forward to finding out which."

Hayes tried and failed to hide a scowl. "May I ask why I've been brought here?"

"You may."

CEO shifted behind his desk and then stood, holding a thin remote, barely more than a stylus. Hayes couldn't see what he did with it, but all of a sudden the room was dark and a scan projector was whirring from the ceiling. The scan of the Battle of Pandora came up in the center of the room, and CEO walked to the edge, folding his arms.

"Could you have won this battle?"

"Yes."

No pause. CEO smiled. "How much of this battle have you seen?"

Hayes looked at him quizzically. "All of it, sir."

The view skipped and blurred with speed.

Banshees. Hundreds of them. Maybe even a thousand. Poised high above the weakened gunships and already-engaged assault ship, there was no way Quaritch could muster a defense. The newcomers tore a hole in the remnants of the force from which there was no recovering.

A button clicked in the dark and the view shifted to ground level, where massive beasts—Hammerhead Titanotheres Hayes knew—were smashing through A.M.P suits to pieces. Between scan contact and engagement range there were only a couple of horrified moments, and he watched in awe as the A.M.P camera he'd watched himself was tilted to the sky and then crushed under a huge mass of bone.

The view pulled back again, focusing on the shuttle. Quaritch's voice echoed from ceiling speakers: "Valkyrie 1-6, this is Dragon. Press to target!"

A massive red-and-yellow winged creature soared down from nowhere, and Hayes' mind went quiet with the impression of scale. It was bigger than a Samson, something meant for legend instead of reality. A Na'vi was _riding_ it.

A Na'vi with a machine gun, Hayes noted with surprise. It sliced through the remaining machine gun nest and tossed something into one of the shuttle's VTOL engines. A second after the Na'vi had reunited with his flying creature, the shuttle's engine flared red with fire and the entire craft banked, clipped a cliff, and then spiraled into the ground. The explosion sent a visible shockwave through the forest.

The scan paused, and the lights came back up. Hayes kept staring at the swath of red the explosion cut in the forest, the play of flames. CEO eyed him.

"Quaritch's assault ship suffered the same. _This_ is the full recording of the Battle of Pandora. I ask you again: could you have won this battle?"

Hayes's mouth was open a crack. He closed it, swallowed, paused. Then he spoke.

"It never needed to become a battle."

CEO raised an eyebrow. "Clarify."

"The shuttle. They didn't need to rely on the VTOL engines to get it to the target. They didn't even need to send the Scorpions out. All they had to do was secure the explosives in the shuttle, fly it to a higher altitude, and then put it on a trajectory that took it directly over the target. Then level it. No loss of life, Human or indigenous, and objective accomplished. Area's clear."

CEO's mouth quirked in a smile. "Then you see how I do. Now—" he clapped his hands together. "—business."

Hayes opened his mouth to speak, but before he could even let out a breath the scan in front of him changed. Now there were three ISVs hovering in the air, just large enough for him to pick out the name emblazoned on the foremost one's side—ISV _Terra_.

"I have three ships with space for 1500, plus cargo of 1000 tons. This is taking into account the space already allotted for mining crew and stereolithography plants."

"Stereo...?"

"3D printing. Large-scale." He waved a hand dismissively. "My point is that we have a space for several times the force that you saw engaged in the previous scan. And we have the potential to place each and every one of them inside their own gunship, A.M.P suit, or even assault ship."

Hayes's mouth was still open. "Sir...?"

"I'm offering you command, General. Command of the Second Expeditionary Force."

The scan projector whirred serenely in the silence, and motes of dust drifted in the blue-tinged light. Hayes tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat. Too many realizations, too fast.

CEO paced around the back of the scan, arms folded.

"We need the unobtanium. Without that, without the resources to power and connect our planet, Earth and every one of her colonies is going to die. Earth is already dead. The only green left is in hydroponic towers. But if we can get at that unobtanium, the capital will let us start construction on a real fleet of ISVs—massive ones. Colony ships. It will let us take the pressure off of Earth and give her some breathing room where we can plant trees and let grass grow again. So we can start over."

He pressed another button on his remote and the scan faded, lights coming up again.

"Quaritch was one of the better military men in the world, that's why I chose him for security. _Security,_ you understand. But he'd never had a real command; even in Nigeria, he was only managing small forces. But you're not a grunt. I followed your recent action down in Venezuela, down with the last of the green. That was outstanding work."

Even Hayes hadn't seen the after-action reports for Venezuela. As far as he'd known, they hadn't even been written yet. Strangely enough, that was what made the hugeness of the moment sink in. His mind hadn't yet adapted to the idea of other planets, other sentient species. But this, this common thing—this he could understand.

CEO turned to face Hayes, looking him squarely in the eyes. Their gaze locked.

"My terms are these. Win back what we lost, and I will give you anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

The word hung in the air between them, frozen in the line of their eyes.

Hayes blinked first.

Were it anyone else, he would have laughed. But this was a man whose control over events was greater than anyone else in history, whose ambitions spanned worlds and generations. A man who controlled a company that could, feasibly, rule the galaxy entire.

He nodded.

CEO broke the stare and continued. He looked entirely unfazed.

"When you reach Pandora, you'll have full control over personnel and equipment, and absolute authority over all of it. You report to me, but I will not do anything more than suggest. Command is yours."

Silence descended again. Hayes laced his hands behind his back and squeezed, brow furrowed. CEO waited patiently. Eventually Hayes looked up.

"The Na'vi that brought down that Valkyrie, sir, who was it?"

CEO's expression darkened.

"Jake Sully."

Hayes started. "The one who made it into the Omaticaya tribe? I read the Times release on that—"

"He went rogue. Defected. Warned the indigenous of the impending attack, and successfully organized his own. He also somehow managed to herd the Banshees and Titanotheres into Quaritch's formations; if you paid attention, you noticed that both were riderless. We don't have much information, but it is presumed that he is still alive and still residing with the indigenous. It's him we'll be fighting."

The silence felt oppressive. In his head, possibilities arranged themselves with mathematical precision. But they paled next to the image in his eyes, a blue-green gem of a world set with clouds of pearl. He had grown up hearing stories about the place, could still remember his parents showing him the first Offworld issue of _National Geographic_ on their aging tablet computer. The vividness of foliage was unfamiliar even then, over a quarter of a century ago.

He closed his eyes and sought the memory and it came to him: the sense memory of his laugh of awe, the yearning for something more than his cramped apartment. The ache. It pulled at him still, passed down the years and only strengthened by the things he'd seen.

Only a couple moments had passed. He breathed in deeply, breathed out.

Opened his eyes.

"I'll go."


	2. Chapter II: Bad Press, Good Press

_The news came in through a tight-beam from the _Venture Star_. We have control of the satellite that received it. The news came to you first, but along the relay someone must have leaked the files._

_Do you know who leaked it?_

_No sir. We're working on it._

_Find them. _

_Yes sir._

_So. How much does the public have? I took a look briefly, but I know the full scan better._

_Our media techs got around to cutting the files immediately to prepare for a potential leak. The public got a cut version of the battle scan, although it was more graphic than it should have been. They got views from the A.M.P suits on the ground, the ones showing the initial Direhorse charge. But nothing else. Not even a mention of Jake Sully, or the AVATAR program._

_Question is, should we let them have it?_

Sir?

_Will the public knowledge of Jake Sully's defection make matters better for us, or worse? We could twist it so that it seemed as if Sully was leading an army against the personnel on Pandora. Then a counterattack would seem necessary. Without public knowledge of Hometree or the notes included with the transmission, all the public knows is that there was a conflict between the RDA and the indigenous._

_If the people figure anything out, if they even start to _suspect_ that Sully was acting in defense, they'll crucify us._

_So then. How do we turn Sully into the bad guy?_

* * *

On any normal day, the RDA media department was busy. At 4:00 PM on the day after the media release, it was a hive.

The drum of fingers on virtual keys was background to a chorus of hundreds of voices, all of them raised to a shout. Computer screens were lit to maximum brightness, some displaying text, others, frames of the video message that had been sent along with the scan of the battle. And others were editing that scan, adding a Na'vi here and there, slightly altering faces, adding war paint, tweaking voices.

In the center of the room, Daniel Reese, Director of Media, was about to rip his hair out.

"I already got all my staff working full capacity to bring this off. Your deadline is batshit. You want this to look real, you got to give us _time._ We can give you Na'vi that look like cannibals if you give us five hours."

The projected image of CEO's face rippled with a smile "Two hours, Director. We've already wasted enough time. RDA has to put out a response soon. Analysts these days pick up on these kinds of pauses." CEO raised a finger to the scan lens and pointed. "Two hours. Make it happen."

The scan clicked off. Reese stood there for a moment, seething. Then he climbed on top of the nearest desk and put his hands to his mouth.

"OKAY PEOPLE, SHUT UP FOR A SECOND AND LISTEN!"

The volume level of the room clicked down a few notches. Reese breathed slowly, mustering what calm he could, then spoke again.

"CEO wants this done in two hours! I know what you've got to do. I told him all of that. But he wants it done in two! GET TO WORK!"

The volume level shot back up to where it had been before and kept going. Reese walked into his own office and shut the door, keying in a lock and doing his best to cut out the noise. Then he opened up the battle scan, currently being edited in real-time, and looked around.

After a day and a half of work, the yet-unseen segment of the Battle of Pandora had undergone significant transformation. Most of the previously-riderless animals now sported harnesses or saddles, and the Na'vi riding them looked fierce: they dripped with deep red war paint, and the bows they used were black, wickedly serrated at the edges. The expressions on the faces of the humans—also altered—now varied between their original abject horror and grim determination; appropriate for those defending the only human outpost on Pandora, which was currently being edited into the rear of the scan.

It was incredible, Reese thought, what technology could do. A few hours ago and people might have had reason to suspect that Jake Sully was a hero, defending Pandora and the Na'vi who inhabited it from a wicked and ruthless enemy. But now a different picture was taking shape: the insane former Marine was still riding his Great Leonopteryx, but both were now covered in red war paint that was specifically formulated to look like blood. And his run to take down the Valkyrie shuttle was substantially altered, instead made to look like he was gutting the Dragon assault ship.

The scene was now augmented by his brutal rampage through _two_ machine gun nests, carrying no weapon other than his curved bone knife and massive bow. The perspectives, now available from the supposed 'helmet cams' of the valiant soldiers and the rotating camera mounted atop the shuttle, displayed every second of his hissing, snarling, bloody fury.

He shifted the view to take in the full aerial battle, which he played in slow motion to fully appreciate the effect. Hundreds of Banshees rained down from the sky, Na'vi warriors screaming battle cries with fanged teeth as they let loose a hail of arrows into the cockpits of the already battle-scarred gunships.

A masterpiece. Worthy of a movie, Reese thought as he sipped much-needed coffee.

But the crown jewel was the video log. Initially a hurried, covert report to Jake Sully included with the battle scan, Max Patel was now the voice of RDA on Pandora, with a nearly ten-minute segment describing the horrors taking place. As soldiers shouted and fired massive rifles in the background, he gave a terse, hysterical report of the situation: Jake Sully had rallied the Na'vi clans to attack Hell's Gate, and despite the automated defenses, the facility was being overrun by the sheer number of mounted Na'vi.

It needed work. The digitized underlayer of Patel's new face still showed in more than half of the video, and the voice was broken up, still being pieced together by sound techs to create a smooth, terrified sound.

But they'd get it done. They would piece it together in time, or else CEO would let the maddened public crucify them. Although, Reese thought, at least then he wouldn't have to worry about the man's absurd deadlines.

* * *

Despite hundreds of years of change, Times Square was still the same ultra-crowded center of New York City. Most of the buildings that surrounded it were still the same, having chosen to reject even RDA's generous offers. But around it, the city had risen up hundreds of feet higher, limiting the view of the sky to little more than a small patch of grayish cloud.

It was 8:00 on a Friday, and the crowds were already in the thousands. Whether they were on their way to a later dinner in one of the new skyscrapers, out shopping, or going to see one a play, they thronged so thick that visible currents formed, impenetrable to the few yellow cabs that still braved the streets. Bikes navigated gaps with computer-aided precision, safety lights strobing bright warnings.

Screens were everywhere. Integrated into windows, hung over the streets, and sometimes even replacing sidewalk panels, almost every screen displayed RDA advertisements—with the notable exception of the few that showed news headlines from CNN and other networks. But abruptly every RDA screen went black and flashed words in block capitals: 'BREAKING NEWS!'

There was a hiss as almost everyone in the square shushed each other and crowded around the nearest screen to watch and listen.

"In a startling turn of events, the RDA has released the full scan of the Battle of Pandora, along with accompanying video logs from Max Patel, acting director of the AVATAR program."

The square rang with the female newscaster's voice, and images flashed up: Max Patel's half-hysterical face, covered in grime and sweat; Na'vi in war paint, gripping bows and jagged arrows; grimly determined soldiers with battle-scarred armor and shredded A.M.P suits. The masses shifted uneasily; since the day before, most had been wondering what the response to the release of the battle scan would be. But few had even considered something like this.

"The full scan shows a valiant defense of the Hell's Gate facility, against overwhelming odds and with far-outdated weaponry. Despite his heroic last stand, Colonel Miles Quaritch, Director of Security for the facility, was killed in action."

A picture of Quaritch's face flashed onscreen, along with a five second clip of a Na'vi aiming a massive bow and firing directly below the camera. Shaking hands came up to brush at the shaft, sending a murmur through the crowds.

"Acting Director Patel's report calls attention to the defection of Jake Sully, a member of the AVATAR program who assisted the Na'vi in overrunning base defenses. Sully has been cited with numerous breaches of contract, in addition to being charged with multiple counts of murder and crimes against humanity."

Another clip played, with Sully's human and Avatar faces posted in the corner of the screen. Sully's avatar hacked through two machine gun nests, then threw a grenade into one of the engines and leapt off onto a massive flying creature. Seconds later, the viewpoint switched to a gunship's rear camera, and the assault ship in the center of its field of view suddenly blew an engine, banked into a cliff, and exploded.

"The CEO of RDA has issued a public statement directed at the criminals who allegedly leaked and edited the footage to release to major news agencies throughout the Colonies."

CEO's face came up on the screens. Murmurs became expressions of wonder; the current CEO had only made a few public appearances since the previous one had died. The crowds surged, trying to get a better look at the unfamiliar face.

"To use this tragedy for propaganda is an insult to the memories of all those who died that day. The world has my personal assurance that RDA will not stop until the perpetrators of this great injustice are brought to trial."

He put a hand on his chest and bowed his head. "My heart goes out to the families of those who gave their lives in defense of their colleagues and comrades. However, it brings me great pleasure to announce that there were a number of survivors who were able to make their way back to the ISV _Venture Star_ and start a return journey home."

The view returned to the news anchor. Times Square was quiet now; even the normal cacophony of taxi horns and sirens had died down. In every room of every skyscraper, people were listening.

"Though no organization has claimed responsibility for the initial release of information, PETA and other groups are currently being investigated, partially due to similarities between the current situation and the so-called 'Cat-woman' advertising scandal in 2148. The full scan and all accompanying documents are publicly available on RDA's main website. More details on the hour."

The screens switched back to their original advertisements. A buzz of conversation started back up, filling all of Times Square, and rising through the towers that surrounded it.

London. Moscow. Beijing. Tokyo. Moonbase. Voyager Colony. Every major metropolis in the Colonies was struck with the news at the same time, and in every city, they bought it completely.

From his desk, CEO smiled.


	3. Chapter III: Loadout

_Well thanks to Reese and his media division, the entire public is slavering for Sully's blood. I knew there was a reason I chose him for the job. 'Valiant defense of Hell's Gate'? Making Patel into the harbinger of doom? Whoever leaked the footage is probably cowering in a corner._

_What now?_

_Now it's Hayes' show. We wait for him to come up with what he needs, and then we get it for him._

_And if we can't?_

_This is RDA. If we don't already own or manufacture it, we can buy it. If we can't buy it, we can blackmail whoever owns it. And if that doesn't work, we take it and let Reese put some spin on it. That's the way it works._

_That's—_

_Brutal? Unethical? Immoral? Yeah. It also happens to be our only option. If we want to rebuild the Earth and even _think_ about terraforming, we need more unobtanium. And in order to get that, we need everything we have, and everything we don't. There's no settling for less, no making do. You and me and the rest of the media division have seen the results of half-assing it. We either send in the best man for the job with everything he wants, or we might as well go there ourselves with a couple of rocks and a big stick._

_Isn't there any way we could get at the unobtanium without disturbing the indigenous? The Hallelujah Mountains are _made_ out of it, and other areas on Pandora have to have deposits as well. Couldn't we harvest there?_

_Everything is sacred to the Na'vi. And it's not that there isn't unobtanium in other areas, it's that there's so damn _much_ in that one spot. A full tenth's thickness of the moon's crust is made out of it. But that's a moot point, anyway. We go in there and lay hands on anything of theirs, and they'll come after us again. It's up to Hayes. I picked him for a reason._

_Why's that, sir?_

_Because he's like me._

* * *

Hayes had been working since CEO had offered him the job,

His first task was to find a gunship that was small enough to pass generally unnoticed, fast enough to evade Banshees, and had enough firepower to kill anything at any angle. Easy enough in concept, but he had reviewed every modern option, and nothing had clicked. Every future generation of the craft was unmanned or tasked with aerial combat only, and he needed a platform with the ability for ground _and_ air combat.

That, and something that could operate on Pandora's atmosphere without nosediving on its first flight.

Then he got an idea.

It flickered in his mind like a lighter flame and he held onto it, fueling it. CEO had sat down to work out more details with him after the official meeting, and when he'd asked what kind of hardware he'd have access to, he had responded simply:

_Whatever you need._

And it _was_ RDA, after all.

He touched a button. "Access RDA Design Mainframe, subfolder In Production, filename Scorpion Gunship."

The scan table whirred, and the Scorpion's rough blueprint came into view a moment later. Hayes glanced at it, murmuring softly under his breath as he thought through what he needed. He hadn't studied design. Pandoran biology in college, yes. Military strategy and tactics in the Army, yes. Engineering, no. But it seemed to him that the matter was fairly simple.

He tapped a button on the side panel, and CEO's face sprang up. A private, direct line.

"All ears, General."

And he looked it, to Hayes' surprise. There was a kind of intensity of focus in his eyes that was rare in those who held power. Despite himself, he smiled.

"I've got a design problem. The Scorpion design is outdated, but it's still one of the best suited to the Pandoran environment. But significant changes have to be made if we're going to re-deploy in force, especially if these craft are going to be the workhorses in combat."

CEO nodded, but didn't speak. Hayes moved his hands over the table like a conductor, pinching the VTOL rotors and dissecting them one layer at a time.

"The current design's top speed is 140 knots, which can only be reached by bringing the craft right up to the red line. Banshees can dive at—" his memory failed for a moment, but recovered. "—around 140 to 150. To counter, a speed of 200 knots should be sufficient. I'm not an engineer, but it seems as if adding a third rotor to the stack might help to fix the problem. 200 knots is the speed we have to aim for."

He moved to the weapons systems, pulling them apart piece by piece as well.

"The missile pods and turret systems are also out of date and ineffective in aerial combat where maneuverability has an edge over firepower. The current turret systems—" he tested the range of motion with two fingers, "—are able to move up only fifteen degrees. In order to truly combat aerial threats, we need as much movement as we can get. A top and bottom mounted turret in addition to the two forward cannons should solve this issue, coupled with proper tracking algorithms. The missile pods can remain fixed, but better targeting software is needed to guide the missiles to their target."

"Software won't be a problem." CEO tapped a finger on the desk, looking off into the distance beyond the camera. "We can hijack some of the heuristic algorithms from the new unmanned craft and tailor them to fit with human guidance. Shouldn't be too hard. The physical bits might be a bit more difficult, but we'll make it work."

Hayes nodded, then tapped on the gunship's outer skeleton, and the armored plating sloughed off like dead skin, floating a foot or so away from the main image.

"Also. One of the primary weaknesses for _all_ vehicles on Pandora is the flux vortex. Though centered on the Tree of Souls, other outcroppings of electronic disturbance have been noted. To combat this, better electronic shielding is necessary for all craft. And please, try to find a scan system that works for targets _above_ the craft. Banshees coming out of the sun is a very real threat, and pilots need better warning."

He continued on, his voice echoing dimly in the room. CEO continued to listen, his face patient, eyes taking in every detail.

* * *

RDA Lunaworks had lain dormant almost since its completion. Ten years prior, it had produced the precision computer chips for powered equipment on Pandora. But with the new blueprints downloaded to the automated equipment, production began.

The sterile vacuum of the Lunaworks facility was the perfect environment for chip manufacturing. Laser cutters engraved miniscule slices of silicon with patterns nearly invisible to the human eye, channels for missile firing sequences or motor motion that would later run hot with electronic signals.

In the only pressurized room in the entire facility, engineers were watching a scan table display pictures of individual vehicle components and arguing heatedly about their ideal composition.

"I'm telling you, the exoskeleton has to be D2."

"In tropical climate? It would rust out in days."

"Ceramic coating with a rubber underlayer?"

"Too much complexity. There are better steels that we can use. Besides, do you really think we want to waste space on the ISV with tons of D2? There's not going to be time to find the raw materials when they make landfall. And the metal isn't even the object anyway. The canopy is the real weak spot."

"Yes, but..."

Outside, the machinery worked silently, heedless of the human bickering in the room beyond.

* * *

"Hey, man, come check this out. You want to fly, right?"

PFC Kyle Mattisson turned away from his field-stripped rifle and toward his friend's voice. A digital poster flashed on the wall, RDA logo emblazoned in the lower right corner. But his attention was drawn to the center of the paper-thin screen, which showed a Scorpion gunship and the massive words "RDA NEEDS YOU!" But this Scorpion was different. This one had a smaller but wider cross-section, with triple-layer side rotors that would look like wings from the right angle. And swivel-mounted machine guns, top and bottom. It was still a Scorpion, to be sure, but this one looked sleek—not as angular as the earlier designs, not as jutting and sharp. He'd always had a thing for functional elegance.

But there was something more interesting than the craft. He ripped the poster off the wall, and distortion rippled through the cheap OLED screen.

"What the hell?"

He read down to the fine print and then read that too, and his heart still beat just as fast. It was real. It was _real. _Another chance to fly.

On _Pandora._

"Fuck, man! That's hot shit right there!"

His friend clapped him on the back and turned away, unscrewing the lid of his canteen and drinking down to the dregs. It was summer in Venezuela, and even inside the tent, it was boiling hot. Global averages weren't getting any cooler, despite all the climate engineering attempts of the past centuries. Mattisson was still studying the poster intently, eyes zeroed in on the new Scorpion's streamlined cockpit. Only then did he notice the name. Where the name and serial number had been printed before, now there was a new word. Phoenix.

"You think I'd get the chance? I mean, with all the sim time I've logged…"

His voice trailed off. After the order had come down prohibiting the use of all aerial vehicles, he'd been devastated. The simulator had been his only escape, and he'd logged so many hours there he had almost forgotten what the touch of a real craft felt like. But to fly the Phoenix...

"Shit man, you fuckin' sleep in the sim room! They'd be stupid _not_ to take you!"

He drained the last drops of the canteen, then flopped down on one of the two cots in the room and tossed it aside. Mattisson closed his eyes, one hand already unconsciously adjusted to a Scorpion's joystick, moving, trancelike, as he remembered the contours of the Hallelujah Mountains. An imperfect rendering, even for a sim.

But he remembered them. Mountains connected by roots that stretched kilometers, waterfalls flowing from rain-replenished lakes. Banshees, tetrapterons, giant hexapods in the sky. He pressed his eyes shut as tightly as he could and remembered, remembered.

But now he might see them in person.

* * *

"Was ist das?"

Colonel Hans Zeiher frowned at a poster flashing at him from a nearby wall, pausing in his daily run. He never used those muscles in an A.M.P suit, but he still warmed up before operating it.

The poster screamed 'RDA BRAUCHT SIE!' in block capitals, and above the caption was a picture of an A.M.P suit that put Zeiher's personal craft to shame. Dark grey steel spattered with camo paint, reinforced joints, and two arm-integrated heavy machine guns. And a sheath for a combat knife over the shoulder.

Zeiher grinned; he'd seen Quaritch's last stand, as had everyone else in the _Deutsche Gepanzerte Abteilung_—the armored company of the German army. The man had been a legend for what he could do with a knife, especially accounting for the clunky hand controls of the A.M.P suits these days.

But the caption below was what really got him interested. It was in smaller letters, almost as if trying to hide behind the 'RDA NEEDS YOU!' that the poster was centered around. But why, he thought, would anyone ever want to hide _this_?

"Nach Pandora gehen?"

He blinked a couple times, and then looked away from the poster to see if anyone else was watching. Then he took the poster, folded it into a square, and shoved it into his pocket.

The less competition, the better.

* * *

All over the Earth, all over the colonies, posters sprang up. New A.M.P suits, Phoenix gunships, soldiers in firing poses with better armor and weapons. It didn't matter—those were just the attention grabbers. But the real catch was the line below:

Take Back Pandora.

All ages clamored for the opportunity, from kids as young as seventeen to career soldiers of forty. For those that made it past the initial selection, the path was harder. Simulators ran nonstop, logs of in-flight or in-suit time started to creep up higher. Some logged 100 hours in little more than a week. Others pushed 120.

Hayes made appearances here and there, as did CEO. Every capital city had them at least once. Thousands flocked to see, tried to convince them of their worthiness. But the ones who truly wanted the chance bided their time, wearing out the simulators until they could fly the scenarios blindfolded.

After all, there was only space for fifteen hundred of them.

* * *

The year dragged on. Production facilities churned out the last of the precision components, recruitment slowed up until there were only a few name spots left on the roster. And eventually, the tide subsided. All slots taken.

Five hundred Scorpion pilots, five hundred A.M.P pilots, and three hundred miscellaneous support crew. Plenty for any task that would need doing.

The last two hundred on the ships were specialized: strike teams for close-assault work, armed and armored accordingly; dropship pilots; commanders, demolitions experts, techies. Everyone they needed. No soldiers of fortune, no mercenaries. Every man was the best at what he did, or was close enough to the best that it didn't matter.

* * *

"Ladies. Gentlemen. Soldiers."

Hayes walked onto the stage of the auditorium to massive applause. He never had been much of a public speaker, even though he'd been doing it for months to rally support. His dress uniform still felt awkward, a far cry from the coarse, loose fabric of his normal gear.

"You know why you're here. We've drilled it into your heads for the past few months without giving you a break. Take back Hell's Gate, capture Sully. I am here to tell you that we were lying."

His stare bit deep into the crowd, daring them to accuse him.

"Ultimately, we will accomplish both of these goals. But that is not the reason for this mission. That is the reason we cast out to the public to find you, the best of the best. And now that you have come, we are able to tell you the truth. The reason for this mission is, very simply, because Earth needs you."

Now the murmurs started. Hayes took a breath and continued. This was the hard part.

"Our mission is to set down, set up camp, and get at the unobtanium deposit that the RDA was originally after. That may sound simple enough, but there are still Na'vi on that land, and they are _not_ going to let us take it. They may even try to stop us from landing.

"But that is why you were chosen. Because you can outfly Banshees with gunships, hunt Titanotheres with A.M.P suits, and there are a few among you who can take down a Na'vi hand-to-hand."

"You are the last line. If you've lived on Earth, if you've fought on Earth, you know how bad things are. The last of the natural green is in Venezuela, and what's happening there? War! We eat algae for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and try to pretend we like it! We live in skyscrapers that show us nothing but more city! You've seen Pandora, seen the forests and the oceans. That's what we could create again, but to do it, we have to have _power._"

He wasn't using a microphone, but nobody missed a single syllable. Even the ones initially shocked were looking up now, the betrayal sliding off into the past.

"Without unobtanium, without power, we will have nothing. Our oceans will go black and evaporate. Venezuela will burn! The human race will suffocate in the fumes of its own factories, in the smoke of its burning forests—_that_ is what we are fighting to prevent. _That_ is our goal!"

His words electrified the crowds, made them look up, sit straight, nod to each other in agreement. Someone started clapping, and instantly, the entire row joined in. Then the balcony.

"We will fly to Pandora! We will take back what is ours! And we will save Earth!"

Hundreds stood, clapping fiercely, shouting, cheering, whooping. No one cared that they had been lied to. All that mattered was their destination. Even as they cheered for Earth, even as they dreamed of their homeworld's salvation, it was Pandora that they saw.

Hayes snapped to attention and salute before walking offstage.

CEO was there, smiling and clapping with the rest.

"All these men are yours now. Their governments have let them go, all honorably discharged from their military branches. The special divisions are all free of their respective organizations. It's your show now. Good luck."

A brief handshake, and then he walked out the side doorway.

Hayes stood there for a moment, breathing slowly, pushing out his fears and embracing the power of the moment. Then he walked out on the stage again, where the real briefing would begin.


	4. Chapter IV: Training Days

_You can't be serious._

_Well, why not?_

_You're the CEO of RDA! Doing that would leave the company headless for six years!_

_Five. The ISVs are faster now. Although to be fair, actual communication would take longer-once I get there, it's 4.4 years to send a message back. Shorter with the superluminal, but I always did like video._

_That's a joke, I hope._

_Of course. But that's beside the point. I solved that problem already._

_Do tell._

_I'm putting you in charge._

Me?

_Well, for the time I'm gone, at least. You'll do fine. Do what you like, just don't let the stocks dip below-_

_You're putting _me_ in charge? What do I know about business? What do I know about government!?_

_Running this company is a lot simpler than you realize. This position isn't the hardest to hold. It's one of the easiest, in fact. Everyone beneath you makes the decisions they think you'll approve of, which in my case means the ones that maximize profit. If you want to change the way things work, that's your prerogative. I just followed the tradition._

_But why in _hell_ would you choose to go?_

_Because I ordered everyone else to go. I made it possible. I'm responsible for whatever happens out there, to the people I sent and the indigenous I'm attacking. And that means I have to see what happens._

_So you have morals now, is that it?_

_Maybe you'll get it when you take the job. Well, maybe not. Here's the thing. There are company morals and there are your morals. Company morals... aren't. And your morals exist only if you want them to. I won't say it's easy to do good. Turning around an entire company for the sake of peace, fair play, and pretty flowers is not something that will endear us to stockholders. But since no one else can challenge us, it's not really a problem._

_What is all this about to you, anyway? Revenge on Sully? Making things up to stockholders?_

_Earth._

...

_I look out the window every morning and I see the surface of the moon. And it reminds me every day of what Earth will look like if we don't stop fucking around and get things done. Yes, I'm brutal. Yes, I'm immoral. Call me evil if you think it fits. But in this world, if you want to save something you're going to fuck something else up along the way. I wish it were simpler. It isn't. So good luck to you, my shuttle leaves in—_

_Now._

_Right. It's been good working with you. You'll do well. Be careful._

_You too._

_See you in a decade. Or so._

* * *

"You will not be asleep for five years!"

Soldiers strapped themselves onto cryo slabs and listened intently to the copilot yelling instructions through the speakers. Phoenix gunships hung from slide-racks on the long ceiling, a small defensive complement for the landing party.

"You will be trained along the way! Gunship pilots! Every ten cryo tubes there is a black line: on your level and within those lines are your partners and squadron mates! A.M.P drivers, same deal!"

Straps clicked, endless rows of tubes were checked and double-checked by the out-of-freeze flight crew. Loose strap ends floated in the null gravity. All A.M.P drivers and gunship pilots here, 250 of each. The special squads and support troops had a ship to themselves.

"A squadron will be pulled out every thirty-two days for group training, and before the end of this trip, you will have been pulled out twice! You will have one day to overcome your cryo sickness, and the next thirty-one days we will run you through the simulator so many times you'll pray you never see another goddamned leaf!"

Cryo slabs slid into cryo tubes. Breathing masks came down, sealed, and started pumping pure oxygen and anesthetic. Respiration cycles slowed as liquid nitrogen flowed into the chambers, freezing the occupants, lowering heart rates, slowing digestive systems, bringing even thoughts to a crawl. There was one last hiss as the last of the ultra-cold fluid was cycled in.

And then the ship was silent.

* * *

Initial acceleration involved none of the matter-antimatter reaction that had become so famous in interstellar transportation.

The power was, simply put, light.

Nine satellites kept stationary above the moon had been collecting power for several years, waiting to release it. And when the launch tech aboard a command shuttle pressed the big red button, that was what they did.

Light. Light enough to spread a blinding glare across the surface of the moon, and to strike the solar collectors on the backs of all three ISVs.

1.5 gravities, constant acceleration.

To everyone still awake, weightlessness suddenly became crushing gravity, pressing the pilots strapped into their seats backwards until the cushions creaked. The single extra passenger awake aboard the ISV _Terra _slammed onto the wall that had suddenly become the ground, wincing in pain as his legs buckled under him. There was a reason, he reflected, that he hadn't gone on these trips before.

Half a year until the fleet hit max speed. And then four years at a speed close to light, alone in the endless dark with no company but the stars.

* * *

Kyle Mattisson climbed out of the cryo tube slowly, eyes slitted against the light.

Too much.

_Damn. _

Frozen to the lowest survivable temperature, then unfrozen by a massive wave of heat, and he still felt like his limbs were made of ice.

"You have been asleep for approximately a year and a half! We are now at cruising speed, and are working in zero gravity! Detach yourselves from your cryo slabs and meet at the rear of the ship!"

It was agonizingly bright. Everything, _everything_ was white. And the armature that ran down the length of the ship was blazing with a light that could compare to phosphorus. And he'd seen phosphorous. He'd _used _phosphorous. He pushed himself up so he could bend to unstrap his feet, only to swing his head right into the cryo tube above him.

"Son of a _bitch!_ Motherfucking cock-sucking god damn..."

He cursed for a solid twenty seconds before he finally got around to unstrapping his feet, and then he pushed off, flailed and turned wildly, and whacked into the cryo slab of an A.M.P driver that was on the same level. With his knees.

He didn't bother cursing this time. He just growled.

"All pilots and drivers down to the mess hall!"

A thought occurred to him: _what the hell is bottom in Zero-G? _

Everyone else seemed to know, so he followed them, bracing his feet on a rung and soaring downward, trying to cover his eyes. This time, at least, he didn't hit anything.

The 'mess hall' was a single long table with straps on the benches and rungs to slip feet under, set on the very bottom of the ship where gravity had originally pulled. Food was in pills and tubes, water in packages with tiny straws. Mattisson turned the water pack around in his hands, feeling the odd dynamics of the fluid within. It never stopped moving.

The people at his sides were all unfamiliar, but they all sported the same arm patch as him: a red seven, printed in the center of an upraised black arrowhead. Beneath the patches were numbers, presumably ranks. Maybe just another way of identification. He checked under his, but there was no number. A red star with a black border sat underneath the arrowhead, small and unassuming. But he felt the weight as if the ship had suddenly accelerated.

Squadron leader. They'd made him a squadron leader.

He was a good pilot. A _damn_ good pilot. But he was no leader. He had no tactical training, apart from remembering which of his commanders had ordered him to do something that worked and something that hadn't.

"A leader?"

He looked up, into the face of a man who looked like he'd seen a war or three. The entire right side of his face was nothing but scars, and on top of that, the skin also looked severely burned. Mattisson furrowed his brow and grimaced, gesturing to his own face.

"The fuck happened to you, buddy?"

The man waved it off dismissively, like he was discussing a paper cut or a stubbed toe. "Nigeria. RPG hit the A.M.P's ammunition belt, broke the canopy." He grinned, and the scars rippled. His accent was guttural Russian, but it had a clip of stilted British. "Nasty, isn't it? Should see my back. Bloody mess, that is... Nigerian got a grenade into the exhaust vents. Heat cooked it off early, but the shrapnel went the same way." He drained one of the water packs and squeezed it into a ball. "Ask me what I did next."

Mattisson raised an eyebrow. "What did you do?"

"Used the gun as a club." He grinned. Surprisingly, the teeth were still there.

Mattisson stayed silent for a second, then snorted, then laughed.

Then _howled._

The rest of the table was in on the conversation in a heartbeat.

Suddenly it was just like home again. Warriors swapped stories like it was some kind of currency, drained water packs like vodka shots. So far from Earth, so painfully, achingly alone, he could find comfort here. Despite the cryoburn that flickered in his joints and the buzz in the back of his head, despite the instant, vicious longing for true home, he smiled.

Eventually the role of storyteller passed to him.

"Alright, alright—so. Venezuela, right? I'm in a Scorpion, flying cover for one of the big bastards. One of the Dragons. Area's hot, guys with the new RPGs all over the place. I look down, there's a smoke trail. So I fire one burst, right? Five rounds. And—no lie—where do they land? Right on the fucking rocket. Blows the shit out of the guy who fired it. _And—_every other RPG near him blows up. A whole firing crew! Twenty fucking guys, with five rounds!"

The entire table was laughing, some pounding the table, heads flat on the surface, practically shaking with it. Mattisson shook his head, trying not to smile as widely as he knew he was.

"ATTENTION!"

Everyone stood, instantly. It was lucky they had rungs to hold their feet, or most would have flown up to the ceiling. And that ceiling was far, far away.

"Once you are done eating, you are to report to the briefing room, off to the side." The pilot gestured to a square hatch. "Once there, General Hayes will explain the training process. Lucky for you, you get you see him in person." He pushed off the floor and flew upward without another word.

They looked at each other, and then scrambled for the door.

* * *

"Over the next month, you will never be out of each others' company."

Hayes hooked his feet under two rungs on the floor and stood as straight as he could in Zero-G. Not an easy task.

"Though you will be working in the air and on the ground, when in battle, you will remain in constant contact with each other. The ability to have an accurate tactical view, both on the screen and in your heads, is key. Enemies will come from every angle, and it is imperative to know exactly where all of them are. That means everyone stays connected."

The soldiers in the audience nodded, hanging onto every word. Hayes was a legend for what he could do with troops. He'd fought and won battles in Venezuela, Siberia, Alaska... Iraq. His ability to sync multiple attacks into one cohesive effort and dominate the field was well-remembered by those that had fought under him, as was his concern for the welfare of his troops. Numerous times, he had ordered squads to fall back mere seconds before they had walked into ambushes, earning him the nickname 'Psychic'.

"In the end, you will work with the men and women in your groups. You may be used to 'break and attack' orders, but this is not a strategy we will use. Unless I give the order, you will stay with your group. We have a fifty groups of gunships and A.M.P suits, more than enough to shore up each others' weak spots without the entire battle devolving into chaos."

He scanned the small crowd. "Who here is a group leader? Stand up."

A thin man with close-cropped black hair stood, feet firmly shoved under the rungs, saluting. Then another man, a few seats away, heavily muscled with a buzz cut. Hayes nodded.

"You two are directly responsible for the lives of your groups. Follow my orders when I give them, but otherwise, stay especially alert. Keep formations tight, and communicate directly with each other. You'll have a whole slew of radio channels to use—there are direct lines to group members, full-group, leaders, and then lines to all the other leaders in other divisions as well. We'll drill you in the comm codes too."

The gunship squadron leader raised a hand, and Hayes gestured for him to speak.

"Sir, I don't have any leadership experience. You're damn sure that you picked your leaders right?"

Hayes grinned. "You're Mattisson. Ace Squadron in Venezuela? I remember your record. It's not just leadership ability we're looking for; you learn more of that in the next month. It's experience. And you've got more of that than anyone else on this ship."

Mattisson blinked and sat back down, along with the other leaders. There was silence for a solid twenty seconds as Hayes surveyed the troops. Then he smiled, and its warmth and humor were unmistakable.

"Well then. I hope you all have a good rest, because tomorrow, we're going to run you through hell."

* * *

"Viper Lead, be advised, two contacts coming from your 9 o'clock. Two Banshees with riders approaching at your 9 o'clock, coming down fast. We cannot engage, over."

"Arrow Lead, I see them. Engaging now. Viper Four, Viper Five, open up."

"Acknowledged, Viper Lead."

Hans Zeiher turned his suit instantly sideways and acquired the two Banshees, along the two fierce, bow-wielding Na'vi riding them. He brought his arm up and squeezed his hand into a fist, and the targeting software did the rest. Heavy rounds exploded from the A.M.P suit's arm and traced red holes from the Banshee's head to the Na'vi's stomach, and the threat fell harmlessly into the forest. Viper Four took out the other a second later.

"Good shooting, Vipers. Arrow One, both targets down. Continuing advance to target, over."

Sixteen days into training, Zeiher thought, and they were already this good. Every comm message prefaced, almost every target hit, and not one person killed. They weren't perfect, but they were close.

"This is Dragon Lead. All groups, be advised, we have hundreds, repeat, hundreds of inbound contacts on both air and ground. Form up and give 'em hell. Over."

Zeiher was shaken before the contacts even appeared on scan. This was new. A new simulation, or a representation of magnetic field interference? Either way, he took his place on the right side of the arrowhead formation, kneeling down and pointing both guns toward where the contacts were supposedly coming from.

Then he saw them.

Titanotheres. Dozens of them.

God damn, but the bastards were _fast._

"This is Viper Lead, open fire, open fire!"

Viper squad let loose. Twenty arm-integrated GAU-90s opened up, targeting software adjusting his aim by a couple degrees. Zeiher's simulator shook as he let off one of the rockets slung under his arms, which exploded on a Titanothere's massive bulk to great effect. Smoke trails from others in his squad sliced through the air seconds later, and the initial wave slowed but did not stop. A voice cracked through on the Zeiher's speakers. Hayes again.

"A.M.P squads, aim for their legs! You can finish them off later, over!"

The tidal wave of supersonic steel shifted down a few degrees, and instantly the Titanotheres howled in pain and collapsed, front and middle limbs shredded by 30mm HE rounds. The remaining Titanotheres tried to climb over the bodies, but precision rocket fire dissuaded them almost immediately.

There was a moment in the gunfire when Zeiher could see the turn. The Titanotheres were huge, nearly invincible beasts, with a ridge of bone that could crush an A.M.P suit with barely a flick.

And they were scared.

The remnants of the pack turned trail and ran.

"Viper Lead to Arrow Lead, how are things up there, over?"

The comm. channel fuzzed with static, then resolved. "Viper Lead, we've got contacts everywhere! We could use some support, over!"

"Negative! A.M.P squads, stay where you are! Dragon Squadron will assist, over!"

Through the tiny gaps in the trees, Zeiher could barely pick out what was happening. He switched to thermal overlay and scanned again, but it was too chaotic to get a good idea. There were heat signatures everywhere, confused and overlapping like fallen leaves after a rainstorm.

Then three massive heat signatures roared into the picture, and white lines lanced from their front ends, salvos that shredded Banshees in seconds. A couple of the remaining heat signatures pulled back into a recognizable arrowhead formation, and a voice cracked through the comm.

"Thanks for the assist, Dragon Lead."

"Roger that. All groups, continue advance."

Then, abruptly, the screen blacked out. Zeiher waited expectantly for the results, and they flashed onscreen accordingly. On the right side, individual reports—he'd killed thirteen Na'vi, twelve Direhorses, one Banshee, and three Titanotheres, with only ten shots completely missed and twenty more inflicting damage on other targets. On the left side, total statistics. Viper squad had scored nearly perfect on accuracy, and once again, there were no casualties.

"Congratulations, everyone. You just won the Battle of Pandora."

There was sporadic cheering all around. Zeiher just shook his head. They'd won a battle that had killed hundreds of men with nothing more than better tactics, slightly better weapons, and steely resolve. And less than a tenth of the men.

"It's a hell of an accomplishment, but there are a couple of areas where you can improve. Viper squad, when you're up against Titanotheres, where do you aim?"

Zeiher rolled his eyes and replied with the rest. "Knees, then the head."

"Exactly. I know it's your first time going up against them, but you've got to keep that in mind. I'm not always going to be there to issue orders, especially if Arrow Squadron has a hundred Banshees to deal with. And speaking of that—Arrow Squadron, you do realize your turrets rotate, right? You don't have to break off and tilt your craft to aim up. Stay in formation next time and slice them out of the sky. Make better use of the auto-targeting."

More affirmatives.

"Alright. Class dismissed. Simulators are open until quad-null if you want more practice."

Zeiher grinned, took off the headset he had been wearing, and climbed out of the small sphere that was his simulator.

The sim rooms were on the ends of what had originally been communications antennae, rotating around the central body of the ship at a speed that gave them Earth's gravity. Which meant that missing a rung on the ladder meant a painful fall.

He gingerly climbed down.

"Viper Five! Bloody hell mate, were you a sharpshooter before you joined up? Thirteen mounted and three Titanotheres in one battle! That's brilliant!"

Viper Lead clapped him on the shoulder, and he nodded in return, still smiling, looking up at the tube connecting the simulator room to the rest of the ship. He still hadn't quite gotten used to the whole affair. Five years in space, and only awake for two months.

Abruptly he realized that there were people on the ship that were awake for all five years. Like Hayes. He flinched unconsciously at the thought; awake for five years, with nothing to do but train the soldiers for one mission? How the hell could he endure it?

He let the thought float away and climbed up toward the tunnel that connected to the main body of the ship. The sooner he got away from those thoughts, the better.

* * *

Hayes entered the darkened simulator room far later than he should have, far after regulations dictated it should have been open. But he waved his override key over a simulator door and it opened immediately, lights inside warming up, surround screens slowly booting.

He'd never flown before. Not in combat, anyway. He ran his hands over all the control buttons and tried to figure out how to launch the craft off the airstrip, but then there was a knock on the side of the simulator.

He went for his pistol, only to realize that he didn't have one. He wasn't allowed to carry it, not on the absurdly expensive, absurdly fragile spacecraft he was riding in. He opened the door reluctantly, one fist clenched and ready to strike.

"A bit late for practice, isn't it?"

Hayes relaxed the fist and smiled. "CEO."

"Please, I told you to call me James. My title has no meaning out here."

"James then. What are you doing up here?"

"Following you. Something on your mind?"

Hayes smiled and looked back at the simulator screen. "I've never flown before. In my own craft, I mean. Here, take the simulator across from me."

He nodded and climbed the ladder up to the simulator, waved his own override key, and slipped in. Both doors hissed shut a moment later, and the illusion was complete. Hayes slipped on the headset and flexed his fingers over the control board.

"Any idea how to start the damn thing?"

James' voice had humor in it. "On the ceiling. Two buttons, and two levers. Right button, then left button, then press both levers up at once. And before you ask how I know, I've got my own craft back on Earth. Non-combat model, of course, but same concept."

Hayes grunted and did as he was told, and suddenly the cockpit—no, _simulator_—was vibrating.

"And to take off?"

"Pedals on the floor. Right is up, left is down. The craft hovers at whatever altitude you leave it at. Joystick for motion. Oh, and the pedals tend to be a bit touchy, so careful with your pressure. It's not like driving a car."

Hayes nodded, then realized James couldn't see him. "Got it."

He touched the up pedal with the very tip of his foot, and the rotors spun to life, sound barely muted at all by the headset. He craned his neck to look to the side, to where the edge of the canopy met bare steel, and glimpsed the triple-stacked, extra-wide rotors that he'd taken a part in designing. He had no idea how the engineers had managed it, but the result looked awe-inspiringly effective.

He pressed the pedal down slightly and the gunship roared, lifting off in an explosion of dust. The simulator rocked back and forth, and he tried his best to keep the joystick still, then decided that it was high enough and jammed the joystick forward.

The simulator pitched to the point where he almost slammed into the screen, but then started spinning to imitate G-forces and slammed him fiercely back into his seat. He laughed openly, flicking the safety cover off the missile launch button and jamming that down too. Plumes of smoke lanced forward, streaking at high speed into the mine just beyond Hell's Gate and exploding in plumes of fire.

"Damn! And this thing has a hundred fifty of those?"

"Yeah. Plus, you've got more air-to-air ones this time around. Twenty. They made them smaller. That, and four cannons. Try the front trigger."

Hayes squeezed it and an ear-shattering thunder broke loose, spitting .50 caliber rounds out at almost twelve per second. In the mine, rocks were reduced to dust in seconds, and he took aim at an automated mining truck, but the trigger wouldn't pull.

"Right. IFF lockout."

He sighed and let the gunship hang, looking out over the forest.

"Why'd we have to pick such a beautiful planet to kill, huh?"

James snorted. "Hell, it was the only one around. Unless you'd rather have headed in the other direction for a few more light-years and risked it there instead."

Hayes twisted the joystick, sending the gunship into a brief spin before tweaking it the other way and bringing it to a stop. "You get what I mean. Is it worth it? Getting rid of all this for our second chance?"

"Hey. Hayes. You're the General here, I don't want you sounding like Sully. You know why we're here. We're not the ones that screwed up the Earth; that started centuries before us. We're the ones trying to fix it."

A gunship flew up next to him, cockpit displaying a faceless virtual pilot. Hayes laughed.

"You look a lot different in there."

"I _feel_ a lot different. Seven months and however many years to go. You think you'll make it?"

Hayes laughed. "Hope so. If not, the Arrows and Vipers could probably pull off what I need on their own. Best bunch I've seen yet. They are the best, you know. Most experience out of anyone on the ship."

"You said as much." James hauled back on the joystick and slammed the lift pedal, bringing the gunship up as fast as it would move. And it was _fast_.

"Five years is a damn long time. But I've fought wars, and every group is a different challenge. You're lucky, though. You can re-freeze if you want to." He fired off another missile salvo, then noticed a small red button obscured by a yellow-striped safety cover. He flicked it open. "What's the other red button do?"

James whipped his craft around. "That's the—"

Hayes depressed the button, and the recoil of every missile launched at the same time made him smack his forehead into the simulator screen. Hard. Dozens of explosions blossomed below as missiles blew craters out of the cliff walls, and the concussive sound of the blasts reached them seconds later. Hayes shook his head and winced.

"Fuck. Lost a few IQ points on that one."

James laughed. "Lucky you're not a pilot."

"Yeah, well. Mattisson's worth a hundred of me. If we're in a tight spot, he's the one we go to. Shot down thirty Banshees today, you know."

"I heard. Dinner conversations tell you a lot." James' craft banked around, and suddenly there was a second thunder of weapons as he let loose every air-to-air missile he had. About two seconds later, the fire-and-forget systems determined there were no targets, and they exploded harmlessly. "So. You figure we'll win, then?"

Hayes grinned. "Win? If the Na'vi aren't smart enough to run, we could kill every last one of them. Here's to hoping they run."

"I hear that."

Both gunships turned toward the forest, tilted their rotors, and dived.


	5. Chapter V: Landfall

_Copilot, comm check to ISV _Victory.

_Running. Scan shows all clear._

_Check ISV _Luna_ too. I want to be sure we can coordinate when we get out of orbit._

_Yes sir. Checking now—done. Fine there too._

_Good. Now we can relax for a few hours 'til we hit orbit. Scan the cryo tubes again, will you?_

_Running scan now... all clear. All tubes functioning but one._

_That man scares me. He didn't _have_ to train them all personally. He doesn't even have to be _awake_ now. We stopped training months ago. What's he been doing all this time?_

_Writing, I think._

_What the hell is he writing? His memoirs? Must be pretty damn boring for the last few chapters. 'And then I waited for another seven and a half months'._

_Strategies, probably. _

_It's a noble effort, I guess. Still, what the hell are they going to do? Find new rocks to throw at him? I mean, the only reason they lost the last time is because Quaritch was an idiot and the mercs they called soldiers had no discipline at all. These guys could take down the goddamn People's Liberation Army if they wanted to._

_You don't think the Na'vi have a chance?_

_No. None at all._

* * *

Earth was no great sight from orbit any more. The green had gone, the blue had been sullied long ago. Lightning flickered dimly in mid-ocean thunderstorms, and grids of city light crossed its surface. People saw it almost daily on colony flights, so often that the wonder had gone. It had become something old, something that despite its size and importance was insignificant.

But Pandora was new.

Set against the striated blue bands of the gas giant Polyphemus, Pandora was a webwork of forest and river, coast and plain, cloud and sea. From the approach vector, it looked small, a marble in the black. But as the fleet drew closer, the size was awe-inspiring.

It was almost the size of Earth, only a few thousand kilometers short. And yet it somehow seemed larger, even set against a gas giant that could have swallowed it whole with one twist of gravity. The surface shimmered with the sunlight of Alpha Centurai B, oceans alight with it, clouds a silken white.

Islands were scattered everywhere, but the continents remained connected. from pole to pole, there was always land.

The pilots moved deliberately, tweaking engine flow here, adjusting pressure there, all the while trying to slow the ships for orbit. Cryo tubes hummed quietly, all crew safely away in stasis.

Except one.

General Hayes watched the monitor screen showing a frontal view, a grey beard covering his face. He didn't move as the view shifted, even when Pandora was out of the camera's viewing range. He didn't blink.

After five long years, he was finally there.

* * *

The Angel-class shuttles were loaded, and all onboard personnel floated onto them slowly, aching from the recent awakening. But Arrow and Fang squadrons stayed behind, shaking off cryoburn, climbing up into the cockpits of the Phoenix gunships that still hung from the ceilings. Canopies sealed and hissed, pressurizing, and the pilots ran through final checks before gripping their controls and waiting for the order.

Cockpit speakers crackled to life. "This is the pilot of ISV _Terra_. Thirty seconds until shuttle and gunship launch. Strap in, boys, this one's gonna be rough."

Kyle Mattisson looked uncertainly down at the floor below his ship. There was a hiss of slow depressurization outside, but other than that, the air was unnaturally still. He tightened his flight harness and gripped the controls harder.

"Five. Four. Three. Two."

He didn't hear one.

The main bay floor of the ISV Terra was a two-section door, built on a system that allowed for a quick release of cargo to the collection and processing base on the moon. When the doors opened, the depressurization was immediate.

The Phoenixes dropped like stones.

The gunships were specifically altered for planetary insertion. Heat shielding, temporary covers over the turbines, and disposable attitude thrusters meant to be ejected once inside the atmosphere.

_We trained for this,_ Mattisson thought. _Briefly._

He gritted his teeth.

Pandora came up under his feet faster than he expected. He kept point as best he could, fighting the atmosphere that made his heat shields glow and cockpit start to scorch around the edges. The temperature rose fast. He snarled, wrestling with his joystick, switching the rotor angles just enough to keep him on a fairly constant trajectory. The ISV _Terra_'s shuttles came down beside him, carving a fiery line through the atmosphere, windows along their sides jammed with the other soldiers. He would have waved, if he hadn't been using both hands to keep his ship from smashing into the people he'd be waving to.

The roar of rushing atmosphere got louder, and finally they were through, gliding smoothly, covered rotors acting as wings. Mattisson breathed a sigh of relief, then waved to the shuttle passengers as he keyed in a comm code.

"This is Arrow Leader. Everyone alright? Over."

Affirmatives all around. He nodded to himself.

"Okay then, let's get this extra shit off and fly! Jettison insertion coverings in five."

Five seconds later, the squadron blew off the rotor covers and heat shielding and slammed on the upthrust pedals. The bang of explosive bolts echoed over the forests, and Arrow Squadron flew forward at top speed, pacing the shuttles, barely able to stop grinning.

Pandora. They were on _Pandora._

* * *

Ka'tey was riding through the darkened forest when he heard it first.

It was a sound he'd never heard before, a whole series of echoing bangs that reminded him of the thunderstorms in summer. A tree falling? He looked up, but the canopy was still, leaves not disturbed even by the wind.

He rode over to the cliffs at a slow trot, looking warily around for some new kind of predator. Not even a _palulukan _made such a sound—and besides, it sounded like it had come from a fair distance away. Through the bond with his _pa'li_, he knew that the animal hadn't heard anything like it before either.

The forest thinned, and he slowed down, then came to a stop.

There was fire in the sky.

He blinked, vivid gold eyes wide, luminescent speckles on his skin brightening for a moment in confusion and fear. He'd heard tales of this. The coming of the Sky People, red gashes in the clouds, Eywa crying out in agony as trees fell hundreds at a time. His _pa'li_ shook its head, eye taking in the eerie sight as well.

He stood there for five more minutes, watching the trails of fire arc and flatten, gradually coming down to brush the tops of the trees. Then there was more fire, great blossoms of it, and another series of concussive blasts to follow. The massive, bird-like objects settled down below the treeline.

They were two days away at best speed, and he had no _ikran_ to fly with, not yet. He spurred his _pa'li_ back toward the Hometrees, urging it into a full gallop. Jakesully would hear the news first, and if he didn't know what to do...

Ka'tey uttered a prayer to Eywa and held on tight.

* * *

"_I saw six big ones. There were smaller ones, but I could not tell how many."_

The inside of the tree was more than a hundred feet across, smooth bark that rippled and flowed into itself in spirals of roots. Light from Polyphemus streamed in through gaps in the structure, blue and soft. Hammocks and cloth rainshields hung from every surface, and in the center of the tree, as close to the roots as possible, a fire burned around which many were gathered.

Jake Sully, still known as Jakesully among the Omaticaya, looked at the boy with searching eyes.

_"And where did these fire creatures land?"_

_"Two days away, flying. More, riding. Too far for me to scout, or I would have told more."_

Sully closed his eyes for a moment in helplessness, then bared his teeth. He knew they would come back one day.

_"I would have told more, I am sorry!"_

He turned back to the boy and tried to smile.

_"It is not you I am angry at. Have you told others?"_

_"No, I have come to you first."_

That would stop the spread of panic, at least for a while. Jake breathed a quick sigh.

_"Tell no one else of this. Not even your parents or your friends. I will find a way to solve this. Thank you."_

The boy ran back to his _pa'li _and rode off again, leaving Jake with the cold certainty that this would be the last moment of peace for a long, long time.

He looked up into the sky again and hissed in anger.

RDA. Again. It couldn't be anyone else; no government on Earth had the resources or the authority to send a ship that could carry six shuttles. And that meant they were still looking for unobtanium, despite their complete defeat.

Although to be fair, he reflected, the Na'vi had only won it by a hair.

_"Jake?"_

He turned around as Neytiri came down the spiral root of the central Hometree, eyes bright with the reflected light of the clan fire. He smiled, but something in it must have been wrong.

_"What is wrong? What did Ka'tey want with you?"_

He rubbed his eyes, tired and confused, and knowing full well that he would have to think on this more before he slept. "_He saw something in the sky."_

She stopped moving. All in a moment a kind of tension filled her that he realized he had seen before, back from years ago. She flicked her ears back and widened her eyes, gold irises burning in the semidarkness of the tree. Her voice was desperate.

"_Fire?"_

_"Fire."_

_"But we sent them away. Back to their planet. They..." _she searched for the words, almost frantic._ "They should not have come back!"_

_"I know. But I was a fool to hope that they would ever give up on us._

She looked at him, ears still folded back against her skull. "_Why?"_

He gestured to the walls, where decorations hung glittering in the dark. "_Because that stone, the stone of Thundering Rocks, that is what they want. It is the reason they are able to come. They believe it will save their world. And if they are fighting for their home, they will not stop to think of ours."_

He walked over to the entrance to the Hometree and rested his hand on the rifle. It was old, ten years old, and the forests had not been kind to it. But there were still bullets in the magazine.

_"If we must, we will fight again. They have had their chance, and our world is our own."_

Neytiri walked over to him and leaned her head on his shoulder, and he embraced her tightly. She shivered against him, and he wondered at how strange this was, his fierce warrior wife scared enough to show it.

_"The last time there was fire in the sky, so many things changed... and the only good that came of it was you."_

Jake smiled._ "What, Norm and Max are not acceptable? Ever since they got their Avatars, they've been more than willing to hang around."_

She tried to laugh, but it came out twisted. "_They have good hearts, but they are not like you. They do not truly understand what it means to live as one of the People. But they are friendly, and come rarely now, so it is okay." _She smiled, but it was strained.

Jake held her close, face guarded. There would be days of pain ahead, days of war. And the sooner they could prepare, the better.

* * *

The first prefab structures were already being laid down, scorched and cratered earth still flat enough to build them on. The escort squadrons still hovered overhead, rotors whirring, cannons trained on the forest they hadn't yet blown to splinters.

General Hayes surveyed the progress that the Special Forces teams had made on the ground and smiled thinly. Good so far. But they didn't have long before scouts came, and it would be very, very good to have the stereolithography plant up to produce the A.M.P suits. And the sentry towers. They had only brought five non-combat suits ones to help with initial resource processing, and their sentry towers at the moment were the gunships, supported by the SpecFor troopers on the ground.

It would take a day to get a basic perimeter constructed, then another day for the stereo plant. After that, a week to get all the A.M.P suits and Phoenix gunships constructed and ready for action. As long as they could find the raw materials.

It was the matter of lasting a week that bothered him. Scouts, he could deal with. An army of Banshees _or_ Titanotheres was fine. But if everything came at once, they would be hard-pressed to defend everyone. Even with six squadrons of gunships.

The radio beeped a transmission alert. "General, this is Arrow Lead, contacts on radar. Small but numerous. Moving fast around our perimeter, probably Viperwolves."

He nodded to the pilot. "Give me your headset."

The pilot handed it over, and he reached over the man's shoulder to key in a communications code, and spoke.

"All squadrons, this is Dragon Lead. We have contacts all around our perimeter; you've probably been following them for the past few minutes. Switch to thermal overlay and dissuade them from getting any further."

Sporadic bursts of high-cyclic-rate gunfire erupted all around, more of a buzz than the familiar hammer of the Scorpions. Thermal signatures on the main tactical display flared and shifted, intercepted by bright white lines. The multicolored blobs flew into pieces, and Hayes snorted. Almost a waste of ammunition.

"Alright, good shooting. Settle down onto the ground, rest your rotors a while. Keep your eyes to the scanner and stay with thermal overlay. Report any large groups."

He left off there and handed the headset back to the pilot. He heard saw another burst of gunfire on the tactical screen, and another thermal blob exploded. Hayes sighed and sat in the swivel chair, wishing he had coffee.

It was going to be a long night.


	6. Chapter VI: Skyfire

_You're paranoid._

_I call it cautious._

_We can last a week easy. The perimeter is set, the sentry towers are in place, and we've got more than enough people to stand guard. We're right on top of an iron plate, so we don't even need to go out into the forests to get the ore for the stereo plants. What are you worried about?_

_I'm worried about an all out attack. We've got gunships, we've got sentry guns, but with the defense squadrons off duty—_

_You've got them set up like minutemen, for christ's sake! You give the order and you can have six squadrons, the _best_ six squadrons, raining fire and death from above inside of three minutes._

_I trained them to work as a team, A.M.P and Phoenix together. The idea is that they complement each other, cover each other, and sometimes one side sees something that the other can't. Without their other half, they're not as effective as they could be. Yes, the gunships could probably engage and destroy any threat they encounter. But it's tough aiming through the trees to get to smaller contacts. Especially if they send scouts._

_It'll be fine._

_Although to be honest, I think it's the dark._

_You're scared of the dark?_

_It's an entire _season_ of darkness, and we came right in the middle of it. Polyphemus is bright enough that we can mostly see what we're doing, and there's the bioluminescence too. But it's unsettling. _

_You've got thermal and night vision overlays, auto-targeting, fire-and-forget missiles—and you're afraid of the dark._

_All the simulators were set to daylight ops. Most of the pilots have flown night missions in Scorpions or other craft before, but that doesn't make it easier. A.M.P teams will have an easier time since they have a close view. But the pilots, they're going to have some trouble._

_At least you've got the Dragons._

_True. Have to watch out for Sully, though._

_I doubt that he'll get close enough to use grenades, this time around._

_Yeah, well. Pays to be careful._

* * *

Norm Spellman woke up in the link chamber with a raging headache and a cramped stomach, and realized that his human body hadn't eaten anything in far, far too long.

He stumbled into the lab feeling half drunk, grabbing a water bottle and a sandwich before realizing that the sandwich had been last week's dinner. Or breakfast. He threw it into the trash and gulped down the contents of the water bottle, which, while not cold, were at least still wet.

Then he noticed the flashing lights on the main computer console and ran over to it, tapping the message.

It was from Jake, dated two days ago, and the only word it bore was _Skyfire._

His insides went cold.

He checked the message, scanned it over again, traced it, and did everything else he could think of to confirm that this was not, in fact, a trick. Or a dream. But it was valid, and he was awake, and that meant that he had a lot to do. And very little time to do it.

He tapped the button on his throat mic and spoke: "Max?"

Relayed over a great distance, Max Patel's voice sounded tinny and faint. "What is it, Norm? I'm kind of busy out here."

"Max, I just got a message from Jake. Skyfire."

There was nothing but hissing over the line. Norm pressed his earbud closer, trying to discern any sound on the other end. Then there was a muffled curse and the sound of frenzied sprinting, and he knew he'd gotten through.

"How long ago did it come in, Norm? We've got to get things up and running _now_! Do you remember the base reactor's startup codes?"

Norm thought frantically, tapping in commands on the computer panel in front of him. The fusion reactor's diagnostic screen spread itself before him, wireframe with touch-sensitive flags.

"I don't know how long it's been, but I just got it now. And I think I remember the codes... hang on."

He tapped a twelve-digit sequence into the console, only to be met with a flashing red screen. _Shit._

"Uh, what is it again?"

"One-three-three-seven, two-eight-six-four, nine-nine-eight-two. I'm signing off now, Norm, I've got to get back as fast as I can; will you be alright until then?"

Norm entered the code and the primary reactors came online, sending a burst of light through the rest of Hell's Gate. He fumbled with the secondary reactor sequences, but he remembered them better than the code, and there was a distant rumble as the stereolithography plant came online.

"I'll be fine, I just need to start getting the broadcast equipment out to the airfield. When will the riders be here?"

Static buzzed on the line, then Max's voice came through again. "If they're not there already, they should be soon. The protocol says that by the time the message is sent, Jake will have ordered them out. So get to it!"

The voice link cut out. Norm switched the computer display to an outside view.

And cursed, the first time he'd done so in English in a long while.

The riders were already there, and from their angry expressions, they'd probably been waiting for more than a few hours. He hurriedly opened the main doors, pulled an exopack over his face, and ran out as fast as he could to the main complex.

* * *

The Skyfire protocol was Jake's answer to a new invasion, and he'd had more than enough time to think through every single tactic that he would need. And as fate would have it, the other Na'vi clans were more than willing to help.

The first step was weaponry, and Hell's Gate had more than enough to arm every man, woman, and child with an assault rifle and a sidearm. Oddly enough, there were some extraordinarily good marksmen among the Na'vi, consistently putting holes in head-sized targets. With a machine gun.

Jake had been surprised at first, and after many hours of practice, he was in awe: some could even hit spot targets while riding an _ikran_, hefting the 11-kilo M30 like it was a toy.

But the weaponry was only the tip of the iceberg. Quaritch, citing a lack of raw materials, hadn't made use of the full _/build/_ database that the ISV _Venture Star_ had carried over. But with knowledge of resource deposits all over the planet, some of the more complex designs could finally be constructed. Concealed auto-turrets, scout drones, mines, and even automated perimeter scanners were churned out by the dozen. The Hometrees looked the same as they always had, but hidden in and around them were hundreds of sensors, scanners, and traps for any of the unwary.

Hell's Gate had mining explosives wired together in packs around the fusion reactor, ready to blow on command. If anyone came looking for leftover supplies, them and everyone within half a mile of the base wouldn't live to make use of it.

But the real plan lay in the strategy. Used to mass attacks, the Na'vi had been slaughtered the first time around by using everything they had in one overwhelming charge. In Venezuela, Jake had seen firsthand how guerrilla warfare could cost ground forces millions of dollars in little more than a week, and personally instructed the Omaticaya and the other clans in this school of war.

_Ikran_ and _pa'li_ now carried quick-release packs of mining explosives, along with holsters for any weapon they could wield. The areas around the Hometrees were saturated with A.M.P suit traps, and even some of the treetops and cliff areas were spiked with improvised mines: ammunition packed on top of a bag of explosives and proximity sensors.

Everything was already in place. The problem was activating it.

* * *

_The problem,_ Jake thought, _is that we have bigger fingers._

He hit two buttons instead of one on the control panel again, and he growled as the screen flashed an error message. With Norm, Max, and all the others safely moved back to the Hometrees, it was his duty to set the Skyfire defenses in motion. As the only place with enough power to send a wide-range signal, Hell's Gate was his sole option for activating the traps. But with consoles not designed for Na'vi fingers and a complex computer system, it wasn't the easiest task.

He steadied his smallest finger and gingerly touched the console again, but this time the task he had marked didn't compute, and the command dialog reset.

_"Pxasik."_

He hurriedly looked at the video monitor, but it was still clear. For how long, he couldn't be sure. Hissing in frustration, he tapped in the preliminary commands as carefully as he could until he got to the part that was confusing him. The broadcast frequency.

All he needed was a single transmission on all bands, and every mine, sensor, and other piece of tech in the forest would come to life. But the prompt only offered a space for a single frequency. He backtracked and scanned the options again, and lo and behold, on the first page, there it was. Wideband broadcast.

He smacked himself for his stupidity, looked at the video monitor, and then tapped the command. And then looked at the video monitor again.

There were dots on the screen, barely reflecting the light of Polyphemus. Organized in a slightly bent line, they hovered partway above the treetops, looking almost like two-winged birds as they drew closer. Except there _were _no two-winged birds on Pandora.

"Shit."

He pressed the link button on his throat. _"Neytiri, get going! I'll activate the turrets and follow you—head for the old Hometree!"_

There was a brief pause, and then her voice came through clearly. _"I hear you, Jake. Work fast!"_

There was a brief screech from her _ikran_, and then the link broke off. Jake thought for another two seconds about how he should have let Max or Norm do this job, and then got to work.

This sequence was one that had been drilled into him at the end of his tour in Venezuela, back when he'd still been recovering from his wounds. They'd let him use his eyes to spot and track targets around the base, letting the constant vigilance distract him from the horror of his damaged spine. And he was still a marine, after all. He'd wanted to help.

It took two tries to key in the full commands, but after the final keystroke the perimeter turrets perked up instantly. Self-diagnostic software came online, and a countdown appeared onscreen. Thirty seconds.

Jake gritted his teeth, looked at the screen, and prayed.

At fifteen seconds, the gunships came into focus. They weren't Scorpions, that was for sure: these were sleek and refined, with little in the way of visible weaponry. As they hovered just outside the perimeter, they looked more like extensions of the treetops than invading war machines. He noticed that one was differently designed, more similar to the Samson than the others—and with six guns instead of four.

Ten seconds. Two of the new gunships and the Samson lookalike came in for a landing, settling down on struts that folded smoothly out from their undersides. The pilots were faceless behind blacked-out canopies, and the rotors slowly spun down from flight speed to an idle whirl.

Five seconds. The turret control interface came up, and Jake turned one of the cameras toward the main body of the gunships and pressed 'TARGET'.

Zero seconds.

He braced himself for the sound of gunfire, but nothing came.

The screen flashed at him, another message scrolling across its surface, and suddenly he remembered. They were RDA's turrets, and without proper clearance, they couldn't fire at friendly-tagged vehicles. He thought frantically for a workaround, but there was none. The only way to switch target designations was to have permission of the chief officer, and Quaritch was long dead.

That left one option.

* * *

Rachael Strom removed her helmet and stowed it next to her seat, slipping out of the cockpit and landing smoothly on the cracked concrete of the base's airfield. Fang nine followed her example, drawing his pistol and crouching next to his craft as the rest of the squadron watched from the air.

The base looked entirely deserted, the airfield still scorched from the last time a shuttle had come in for a landing. Even some of the strut marks from the Scorpions were still visible. But the walls were almost entirely overgrown, cracked from vines and other assorted plant matter. The edges of the base were starting to show wear as well.

"Contact, coming out of the main base! Dragon: orders, over!"

She scanned around, but from her view on the ground, nothing was visible. Nevertheless, she flicked the pistol's safety off and put one foot on the Phoenix's entry rung, ready to climb back in if she needed to.

Hayes' voice came through loud and clear. "ABORT! I say again, ABORT, ABORT, ABORT!"

Fear, cold and sharp.

An abort order had only been issued three times in training, and all three times, at least one squadron mate had died. Once, all but three of the squadron had been caught in a massive fireball, and she hadn't been one of the lucky survivors. The dead blackness of the simulator after her craft had gone down had been bad enough. She didn't care to experience the real version.

She somehow managed to climb back into the craft, put on her helmet, and spin the rotors up to flight speed.

Her craft lurched up, and she punched the landing gear retract button and swiveled the craft around, pressing the acceleration pedal down the floor. Her rotors thundered louder than she had ever heard, and she felt the craft's seat harness tighten automatically as the force pushed her back against the seat.

"BRACE YOURSELVES!"

The craft shook, twisted, and tore itself to pieces.

Rachael got a fleeting glimpse of the turbines just before the counter-rotating blades flexed, intersected, and shattered. She screamed mayday into the helmet mic even as one of the fragments punctured the canopy, and continued screaming when the craft nosedived into the ground.

The crash was a brutal punch to the stomach that knocked the wind and a good amount of blood out of her mouth, painting the canopy with a spray of droplets. She drew a ragged breath, winced from the pain, and coughed violently. More blood. Ribs broken. Not good. Canopy breached. _Shit._

She coughed again, reaching for the emergency exopack, only to find that the mask was cracked—split by another fragment of the ceramic rotors.

_Vision loss within ten seconds. Consciousness in twenty. Death in four minutes._ The words came back to her even as her vision went fuzzy around the edges. Shakily she pulled the emergency oxygen tube from its slot in the side of the cockpit, unfurled the flexible mask, and breathed. Her stomach spasmed violently from the pain, but her vision cleared, letting her clearly see the hell that waited in front of her.

Flames raged with hellish intensity, burning a dark orange-red in the different atmosphere. With the cockpit breached, the heat came through blisteringly clear. She coughed inside the mask and more blood spattered across the plastic.

She would have screamed if not for the pain. Burned alive. Melted into a formless mass of blackened flesh inside of an equally formless blob of metal. Who was going to save her from that? Hayes wouldn't send anyone into this inferno, wouldn't risk another pilot for the sake of one that, for all he knew, might be dead already.

The fire roared louder than the turbines, and she screamed in defiance, not caring about whatever injury had turned her stomach into a mass of pain. Second fucking day on the planet, and this happened. She growled and spit more blood into the mask, eyes searching the smoke-blackened skies, just in case. But no one was coming. She gritted her teeth and pulled out her gun. The hell with waiting. She wanted out _now._

The noise of the shot was lost in the flames.

* * *

General Hayes paced around the outside of the makeshift morgue, silent and grim beneath the faceplate of his exopack. A Special Operations squad down to half its members, a dead pilot, and three other pilots in the hospital. Not a good start.

The mortician exited the tent flap and entered immediately into conversation.

"They all died instantly. Three of them have snapped necks, and the other two have shrapnel lodged deep in their brains. Even if they had survived, they'd be paralyzed or mentally impaired. If it's any consolation, General, they didn't feel much."

Hayes nodded silently, breath clouding the clear mask. The mortician waited around for a moment.

"There's nothing you could have _done,_ General. I was watching the ISV's scan the whole time; the moment that Na'vi got out of the base, you ordered them to abort. There was no prior warning, n—"

"I know. It doesn't make me feel any better."

There was silence for another few heartbeats. They both stood there, Hayes looking at the ground, the mortician wringing his hands and looking at Hayes. Neither spoke. No matter what had been done, the result was the same. Seven casualties on the first mission was a hard blow.

The mortician spoke up again. "How are the others? The wounded pilots."

The corner of Hayes' mouth twitched upward a little. "Alive and cursing. Strom especially. She's got some bad burns and more than a few broken ribs, but she's more than willing to take some pain if it means getting back into a Phoenix sooner. She was actually shooting her way out of the cockpit when one of her squadron mates found her. The other two have some broken bones, but they'll heal up fast. They want to get back into action too."

There was more silence. Hayes looked out the window and sighed, shaking his head.

"It's a bad sign when something this important starts off this badly. I know it's not my fault. But they were my soldiers, my pilots. I trained them. I know every one of their faces, every one of their callsigns. It's hard not to feel that I'm responsible somehow. After all the training I gave them, after all my efforts to make them invincible, they can still die."

The mortician looked down at his hands. Hayes grinned suddenly.

"I guess I shouldn't be talking to a mortician about this." He clapped the man on the shoulder and smiled. "Come on. Let's go talk to the survivors."


	7. Chapter VII: The Truce

_You have to make the offer for peace. _

_They killed seven of us, and we haven't even talked to them. _

_Past grudges. You know what happened here, did you expect anything less? Your willingness to make peace is what matters here. It will show them that you're a different man than they are used to. We don't _have_ to kill them to get what we want. The old Hometree is where the unobtanium is, and it's far enough away from their new settlement—_

_We know where their new settlement is?_

_The ISVs up above are doing planetwide scans, and there's a spike thermal display that we think is the new home of the Omaticaya. Miles and miles away from the original Hometree, far enough that they probably wouldn't even hear us if we mined out the whole deposit from under them. They might even thank us for clearing away the wood. God knows there's enough of it._

_I doubt that somehow, but it's a thought. I knew there was a reason I thought to bring a psychologist to this planet. Any ideas negotiations?_

_Meet in a place that they control. Don't go alone, but go unarmed. They'll have less of a reason to distrust you. And try to meet with Sully directly. He'll have more of a chance of understanding. We can drop message to them in a container so we don't just appear uninvited. I doubt the Na'vi know what a white flag means._

_And if they decide to shoot me?_

_Hopefully they won't._

_But?_

_How about we leave it at hopefully they won't._

* * *

It was the first time Mattisson had flown without a squadron behind him, and the first time he'd flown at night. Between the two new experiences, he was scared to death.

Instead of the thunder of ten gunships there were only his rotors, the echoes rebounding off distant trees and cliffs. That was one thing the sims hadn't prepared him for: the sound was actually _quieter_ in real life. They'd muffled the rotors better than even the sim designers had predicted. But far from being comforting, the silence was eerie. It was almost as if this were the simulation, or a strange distorted cryo-dream. They said you didn't dream in cryo, but Mattisson was dead sure he'd been dreaming of flying.

He still had his full complement of missiles and hundreds of rounds for his heavy gun, but he was still just one man in a single vehicle, and he was heading into an area where there were hundreds, maybe thousands of riders willing to kill him. And for all his firepower, for all the tech they'd crammed into the new Phoenixes, he'd been given the order not to shoot, _even if fired upon._

_We need them to trust us,_ Hayes had said._ I know they took out a few of us already, but don't let that get to you. Stay in the air, stay high, shoot off the message, and gun it. You'll be out of there before they can get off an arrow, let alone put Banshees in the air._

Hayes' words were still in his head as the blinking dot on his TACMAP drew closer. When he was directly over the target he let his Phoenix hover and pressed a tiny button that had been hastily cabled into his dashboard.

A canister dropped from the bottom of the gunship. In it were data chips, hard copies, and dozens of other forms of a single letter. There was even a portable scan projector for an audiovisual display, if they could figure out the technology.

He waited for a couple of seconds, just until a green indicator light popped up on his instrument panel. Then there was a warning signal.

He frowned. That hadn't come up in any of the sims.

The warning signal turned into a high whine, and a shrill voice broke into the cockpit:

MISSILE LOCK / MISSILE LOCK / MISSILE LOCK

His throat went tight. He yanked back on the joystick and floored the upthrust pedal, jamming the flares button with a thumb. A massive wash of light shone through the cockpit for a moment, and then the Phoenix kicked into full flight and pulled away at top speed as a muffled thump sounded through the cockpit. He closed his eyes for a second, expecting red lights all over and a warning siren screaming bloody murder, but there was nothing. Just the thunder of the rotors and echoes of the cliffs. He'd almost breathed his sigh of relief, but a sharp metallic CLANG nearly made him jump out of his seat.

There was one at first, then two more, then a pattern that sounded like raindrops on the command building's roof in Venezuela. He gritted his teeth and kept pressing the upthrust pedal, angling the rotors full forward. The Phoenix could take a pounding, but if an arrow hit the rotors...

He smiled despite himself. He'd never thought that he'd be able to use the phrase _when shit hits the fan_ to describe an actual problem.

Not more than a few seconds later the raindrop-rattle of incoming fire died out, and he took full inventory of his cockpit and his TACMAP before breathing a full sigh of relief.

He keyed in the home code and spoke.

"Dragon, this is Arrow Lead. Mission complete, I say again, mission complete. Took some fire but my rotors are clear and I'm headed home."

* * *

_"It has to be a trap."_

Neytiri looked at the cylinder the message had come in suspiciously, feeling every inch of it for some irregularity. They'd emptied it out far away from the Hometrees, just in case there was some tracking device hidden inside. It had been dropped near a boundary settlement, an outpost on the edges of the Hometrees' perimeter. But as far as Jake could tell, there was nothing but steel and foam padding, plus the contents.

_"They haven't shot at us yet. Maybe they just want to talk."_ Jake let his hand drop to his side, still holding the hard copy of the letter. _"Even the gunship that Tsu'ral tried to shoot down didn't fire back."_

Neytiri's face darkened. _"Tsu'ral is a fool. He should not have been given one of the tubes that make metal fly."_

Jake flicked his ears. _"He was a fool. But he is a warrior, and he is entitled by my laws to a weapon of his choice. And we were all trained. He's not the only one that wanted to fire, either."_

_"But he did, and the others didn't. Is that not enough reason for him to be punished?"_

_"He will not shoot again, I promise you. Not until open war comes."_

Neytiri scowled, but said nothing more.

Jake brought the letter back up into view and scanned over it again. There was nothing false about it, not that he could tell. The new general—Hayes, his name was—was requesting safe passage to the Hometrees to discuss a peace treaty. No guns or rockets on the ship, and only two troopers as escorts.

But it was one line that had him convinced: _If you see anything suspicious, or anything that makes you think I've come to kill you, feel free to shoot me out of the sky. Otherwise, let's do our best to come to an agreement. I've lost seven so far, and I'd rather not lose any more._

Jake crumpled the letter into a ball, wondering. There were few who would risk such danger for their troops. He could respect that.

_"Neytiri."_

There was a rustle beside him and a tap on his arm. _"Here."_

Jake smiled. _"I still haven't gotten used to how you move. Even when you're running in front of me I can't hear your footsteps."_

_"That's because you are still blind and deaf, skxawng."_ She smiled and kissed him lightly on his forehead, and for all that was happening around them, all the danger and the tension, Jake felt himself relax and fall a little bit more in love with her.

Neytiri pulled away and looked at him seriously. _"What was it you were about to tell me?"_

_"We need to send a message back to Hayes."_ He made himself sound as certain as possible of his decision. If he were anything less, Neytiri would never go along with it. She stiffened and turned her head to look off into the forest.

_"You will talk with the ones who killed our home?"_

He swallowed and put a hand to her cheek, and she looked back at him, eye to eye.

_"We have to do this. It is a hard thing, but it is better to lose ground than to lose people."_

_"Is it?"_ He voice was a whisper. _"Even the dead are a part of Eywa. What are we to do when the dead are dug up, and the trees that they have grown uprooted? What will the children do when their parents' voices are gone from the Tree of Souls?"_

_"I did not say it would be easy." He stroked her cheek. "But we cannot fight them. We might win, but it would not be easy, and many of us would die."_

_"But your plans—"_

_"—were meant as a last resort, as a safeguard. Hayes wants peace as well. If we do this now we can find a way to live together. Carrying old grudges does not solve anything. If we can forget our pasts and greet one another as equals..."_Jake smiled, remembering Earth for the first time in many years. _"Perhaps both our planets can prosper."_

* * *

Hayes was used to the shuttle-style comfort of the Dragon assault ships, with dedicated command seats and cupholders on the armrests. But the Stormwind transport was bare-bones, bucket seats and crash webbing. He wondered sometimes how the Special Operations personnel felt about their lot, but they never complained that they were uncomfortable. For that matter, they never complained about anything at all.

He'd brought the two best along on his mission: Archer and Kel, both SIS veterans with clipped British accents that gave no clue as to their training. He hadn't been aboard the ship that housed the Ops personnel, instead delegating command to a senior officer who was used to working with ground troops. But in his briefings he remembered vividly just how dangerous some of the soldiers were. And the SIS were the best. The fastest, the most accurate, the most experienced. They might not have been suited for every task, but for bodyguarding, there wasn't a single pair of soldiers he'd rather have by his side.

The transport roared into a clearing only about as wide as its wingspan, and the Fang squadron pilot quickly cut the engines and unsnapped the cover on her pistol holster. Hayes reached forward into the cockpit and touched the pilot's arm.

"We're just talking. No need to worry."

The woman nodded haltingly and re-snapped her holster, but kept her index finger on the strap. Hayes sighed. It would have to do.

They disembarked and walked a few feet, wondering which direction they were supposed to head. Then there was a rustle and a Na'vi dropped down from above, a bow slung over its torso and arrows in its hand. Behind him, Hayes could hear the pilot unsnap her holster again. Despite himself, he chuckled.

"I barely heard you. Do we follow you to the Hometrees?"

Just as it occurred to Hayes that the Na'vi might not speak English, the alien face broke into a grin.

"If you think I'm quiet, you should hear my wife." He squatted down onto his knees and extended a hand. He was still taller than Hayes. "Jake Sully. I'm sorry about your men, I truly am."

"Alexei Hayes. And so am I."

They shook. Someone should have taken a picture—Hayes, six feet tall, shaking hands with a nine-foot Na'vi that had once been human. It should have been something historic, but there were only five of them, and the only camera among them was the audio/video base link around Hayes' neck.

"The Hometrees are this way. I'm warning you though, there are going to be a lot of angry people there. I want things to go well, but everyone else remembers only the day that Quaritch destroyed Hometree, and the days after, when he killed most of the tribes. We've had a hard time recovering."

"I'll keep that in mind." Hayes gestured for Jake to lead the way, and off they went.

It was slow going at first. The SIS operatives were used to moving on uncertain ground, but Hayes, for all his experience as a commander, was used to the flat concrete of operations and control centers. Jake, by comparison, was a cat. He didn't make a sound, and everything above his waist stayed unnaturally still, as if his legs were no more than shock absorbers for his torso. Hayes shook his head in awe every at every footfall.

The forest around them was full of bioluminescence, pale greens and pinks and vivid orange and red. Polyphemus glowed overhead, the big blue spot staring at them like an eye. Even the grass—if one could call it grass—glowed wherever they stepped. Hayes bent down momentarily to stroke it, his exo-pack's mask clouding as he let out a long breath. It was like a dream world. He remembered the first fuzzy super-luminal transmissions, the pictures playing across the news screens over and over again until he could remember every pixel. It had been amazing then, but now it was awe-inspiring.

When they reached the Hometrees, his attitude changed.

No one spoke, but everyone was staring. Every man and woman that was old enough to ride an _ikran_ had a gun slung across his or her chest, and some had two. There were M30s, old Colt-pattern .45s, and once or twice Hayes swore he could spot a Barrett M570, a rifle almost as long as he was tall. But what disturbed him most was how they looked in the hands of those that wielded them.

They looked _small_.

The heavy machine guns looked like assault rifles, and the .550 caliber anti-armor guns looked like plinking rifles. And what was more, the Na'vi held them in all the right places, with a quiet, obvious discipline. Hayes whistled a low tone of appreciation.

"Did you train all these people?"

"Yeah. We rounded up all the weapons and stockpiled them. We weren't about to go undefended if you did decide to come back. Arrows only go so far against gunships."

Hayes nodded. A quiet fear was slowly settling in his chest. Only in his last few months had he considered that the Na'vi would have embraced the technology of his predecessors. He'd made calculations and figured that RDA would still come out on top, but even without superior weaponry, the Na'vi knew the land. And a mastery of the environment counted for far more than technology.

Eventually the small party came to the largest of the trees in the surrounding area, fully a fifth as large as the original Hometree. Jake gestured at a small gap in the root systems.

"After you."

* * *

Jake hadn't realized how much he'd missed talking to another human.

He was Omaticaya, that was true, but there were memories in his brain that he had suppressed for years. As soon as Hayes had opened his mouth to speak, Jake had interrupted eagerly with questions about Earth. Had any of their problems been solved? How was the food situation? Were there any new hopes for ozone layer restoration? Was CEO still hellbent on profit?

When it came to the last one, Hayes had laughed.

"If he was, he wouldn't be along with us on this mission. His name is James. You should come meet him some time. I think he'd be interested to talk with you." He paused, and his mouth quirked. "Even if you did set back his plans a ways."

Jake had nodded, then winced. It was ten years ago now that RDA had tried to take the Tree of Souls, and the memories were fading. But he had never been able to fully put the death of his fellow soldiers out of his mind, and Hayes brought the guilt back with a vengeance.

The agreement they were slowly coming to meant that many Omaticaya would be angry. The old Hometree would be given up, and all the new forest uprooted. The area would be turned into a mine, just as RDA had hoped. But Hayes had promised to cordon off the area as well as he could, with walls higher and steeper than any land animal could climb. And he had promised to replant what trees he could save elsewhere, at Jake's insistence. For the sake of peace, it had to be done. For the sake of life.

Hayes smiled for the first time in the meeting. "I didn't know what to expect from you. I saw footage from during the battle, and you were vicious. When I first heard you were who you were, I couldn't believe that a human could be that brutal. But I can see what you were fighting for." He gestured up and around. "It's a place more than worth preserving. There's still a part of me that hates you for all the men you killed, but..." he paused, and Jake could see him struggling. The silence hung for a moment as Hayes bit his lip. Eventually, with not a little effort, he got the words out.

"I forgive you."

Jake bowed his head. Despite himself, he felt the guilt inside him rise up, and a tear slipped out and fell untouched into his lap. He reached out a hand to Hayes.

"Thank you. I—" his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat before continuing. "I can't tell you how much it means to have someone say that. I fought that way because I was afraid of what would be lost, but I would never say that it was easy. Thank you."

He bent his head again, and the meeting was over.

* * *

Tsu'ral had been stripped of one weapon, but no one had the right to take his bow and arrows. Even the lowest of the low, the exiles who had their braids cut so that they were forever doomed to walk alone—even they were allowed to keep their bows and knives. And even though the rest of his tribe had come to rely on the bows-of-steel that the Tawtute had brought, he had never forgotten his _tsko,_ the true weapon, the one with which he would now end the new war before it began.

It was an easy shot. The short _eyktan_ was walking in the middle of a well-worn path with a guard on each side, slowly enough that leading the target would barely be a factor. And with the poison on the bow, even a grazing shot would be fatal.

There were no others but Jakesully around to see, and he would not know who had loosed the arrow. The alien _eyktan_ would die and the new war would be ended, the enemy's plans unwound and in chaos.

He nocked a single arrow and took aim, then let fly.

The shaft passed straight through the space between the general's arm and his chest and buried itself in one of his guards' legs. The man howled but somehow had the strength to pull out something small and stab himself with it, right next to the wound. But by that time the other guard had already taken a glance at the arrow, tracked its angle, and fired a volley of shots from his sidearm.

Tsu'ral didn't see anything, and felt only the tiniest of pricks, but the flechette rounds weren't meant to kill. It was the poison that did that.

He brushed at the pricks in annoyance, and then abruptly felt his heart surge into motion, beating so fast he could barely breathe. He felt hot. His vision clouded, and he tried to rise from where he was crouched on a high branch. But he overbalanced, dropped his bow and arrows, and fell. Dimly he could see a rush of glowing green leaves, and then his eyes misted over completely.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

* * *

Kel knew the antidote had worked. He'd stabbed himself in the leg with the syringe less than three seconds after he'd been hit, had broken off the shaft of the arrow, and slapped a quick bandage on while Archer returned fire. But what good was an antidote when there were hundreds of other Na'vi equally willing and eager to kill you?

There was gunfire in a volume he'd never heard before, a buzz that made the forest shake and his ears ring. He had already dropped to a crouch, but now he was prone. Surprisingly, even Sully had dropped with them, fearful of what his own people could do. Hayes was down too, eyes closed so tightly that Kel knew immediately that he was alive.

"Archer!"

"Yeah?"

"My leg's messed up. Tendon's cut. Got to help me get to the transport!"

"Right mate, just two ticks and I'll be over with you. Hayes, you alright?"

Hayes muttered something into the dirt that Kel took as an affirmative. Apparently Archer did too, because he started counting.

"Three, two, one—UP!"

They rose as one. Archer moved smoothly, covering Hayes, then lifting Kel into a fireman's carry. Kel hit the release on his gear. It would only slow them down, and there was nothing in the kit that the Na'vi would know how to use.

"Christ mate, when did you gain weight?"

"Fuck off," Kel muttered.

He had his sidearm out despite the odd position and was watching for Na'vi in all directions, especially above, where the first shot had come from. Abruptly he realized that Sully was running with them, a hand on Hayes' back. He considered killing him for a moment, then put his mind to scanning for targets again. Sully might have been an asshole, but if Hayes had found it in himself to forgive him, so could he.

That, and he didn't have a weapon.

They made it back to the transport in what must have been record time, and Archer dumped him unceremoniously into the bucket seat and shoved him in the side.

"Budge up, make room."

"What?"

"We're not the only ones going."

Kel looked to the side and saw Hayes getting in. But then Sully appeared, massive and blue, and climbed into the center of the craft, bracing between the seats and the pilot's divider. He was about to ask about what the hell was going on, but then there was the CLANG of a bullet and a lurch of acceleration, and someone was shouting GET AIRBORNE, and the forest spun around him as they lifted into the air, through the treeline, a steady drumbeat of bullets on the underside of the transport's airframe.

Archer was repeating _motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker_ over and over again, Hayes was panting from the run, and Sully was holding on to the edges of the doorways for dear life, trying not to fall out of the craft as it banked steeply left, making for home with all good speed.

Eventually they leveled out, the G-forces subsiding. All five of the transport's inhabitants breathed out long sighs of relief, some larger than others. Hayes put his hands up to his face and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, and then let them drop and looked Sully squarely in the eye. He didn't look happy.

"Well, Sully, it looks like they don't like either of us."


	8. Chapter VIII: Schism

_They're going to think you kidnapped me._

_But we didn't. You can tell them so._

_You don't understand. When Quaritch was still the CO around here, he said 'we will blast a crater in their racial memory so deep that they won't come within 1,000 klicks of this place ever again.' He might not have blown up Vitraya Ramunong—_

_What?_

_Vit—sorry. The Tree of Souls._

_Right. Go on._

_He might not have blown up the Tree of Souls, but he did put a black mark against humans in the Na'vi's racial memory that we'll never be able to clear. Forget Norm and Max. They're as much Na'vi as I am._

_I get that they hate us. I planned for that._

_You don't _understand._ They don't just hate you. I don't know how to tell you how deep their anger runs. No matter what I say, no matter what I try to tell them about you being an honorable man, they will try to kill you every chance they get. The Omaticaya alone have enough firepower to blow your base into orbit._

_I'll take that statement with a grain of salt, but I get your meaning._

_Don't. It's true. If you try to get mining equipment in the area of the old Hometree, I swear to you not one of your soldiers will make it off this planet alive. I wish that I could tell you that you would be safe, but even as their leader, I only have so much control. And if I push too hard for peace, someone will challenge me. And I'm not as young as I was in the first war. If I die or step down, there's no telling what the clans will do._

_Jake, I don't want anyone to die, and I will do everything in my power to keep my men out of harm's way. But if you or your people attack us, I will not hesitate to use every option available to me._

_We beat Quaritch._

_Quaritch was a reckless fool who put too much faith in his armor and his numbers. I don't miscalculate. And I don't lose. I just want you to know that if you attack us, we will not spare anything in our way. Anyone that raises a bow or gun against us, any target that is of value to you—it's all fair game. Just keep that in mind._

_I will. I wish that I could say that peace was possible, but..._

_I understand. And I'm sorry._

_So am I._

_Let's get you back home._

* * *

Hayes was scanning a printout when the woman walked into the room. She dragged a chair from the corner and swung it back-first to the table, then sat down and stared at him, a tiny grin on her face. He raised an eyebrow.

"At ease."

The tiny grin turned into a smile, but she didn't respond.

"Griffin, right? Cayce Griffin?"

She nodded.

"Any idea why I brought you here, Griffin? Speak as candidly as you like."

"You want me to kill someone, right? That's what I'm good at."

He nodded. "But do you have any idea why I asked to talk with you _here?"_

She looked around without moving her head. The room was a cramped concrete cube with a single metal table and two chairs, no windows, and one door. She looked back to Hayes again, and her eyes were sparkling dangerously.

"Secrets."

He nodded. "Sealed room. No recording devices, electronically impervious. Everything you'd be used to. Just in case someone out there wants to know something they shouldn't."

"With all due respect, I am used to it, and you can get to the point."

Hayes narrowed his eyes. "Due respect also includes calling me _sir."_

There was a momentary flicker of anger across her brow, and then it was gone. "Sorry, _sir._"

"My point is that you and I need to be the only ones that know about what goes on in this room. If you have friends, even if they have the same security clearances as you do, they are not allowed to know. If I find out you told them, I will kill them and I will kill you. No matter how well trained you are. Are we clear?"

His voice hadn't changed, but Griffin's eyes narrowed to match Hayes'. "Yes sir."

"Good."

He flipped open the file lying on the desk. "Cayce Griffin. Currently thirty-eight. Born Paris, France, immigrated to America after the reactor meltdown. Dual citizenship. Lived in New York until college, then studied at L'Académie de la Lune. Finished with a dual major in Organic Chemistry and Engineering. Then…" he flipped a page. "Army Rangers for four years, one of five females in a unit of hundreds of men. Volunteered three times for Delta, rejected twice due to the precedent of rejecting women, then accepted on the third round after you threatened..." he paused. Griffin smiled thinly.

"It worked, didn't it?"

Hayes didn't blink. "Inducted into Delta. Served five years, and then all records stop. You're not dead, and you haven't been discharged." He closed the file. "So where have you been?"

She cast her eyes around the room again before settling on Hayes again. "S.A.D. Special Activities Division."

"I don't know anything about it."

"CIA special operations. They handpick from Delta and the SEALs, find the ones who know how to keep a secret best. They find people with no wives, no children, no girlfriends or boyfriends—the ones with no one to tell. And then they train us." She blew out a long breath. "I was used to training from Delta, but the shit that Activities did to us was fucking brutal. I was one of twenty, and when we finished, I was one of five. Three of the ones that failed were dead."

"Dead?"

"Dead."

"So it's safe to say that you're top tier."

She nodded.

"So why did you come to Pandora?"

She rolled her eyes. "Why come to Pandora. The hell kind of question is that?"

Hayes shrugged. Griffin sighed.

"You really want to know? Activities lets its people go if they want out. No questions asked. They track them to make sure they don't go digging up any skeletons, but they give you a clean slate and a lot of cash. They figure if someone wants out, that's a valid enough reason. Bad to hang on to someone that doesn't want to do their job."

Hayes looked at her carefully for a couple moments. She was about his height, five ten with close-cropped blonde hair. She didn't look overtly muscled or fit, and the clothes that she was dressed in were worn and loose. Grey RDA T-shirt and generic bluejeans, with military boots underneath. And dog tags, plain stamped steel with rubber silencers. He frowned. The military didn't use tags any more, at least not steel ones.

"Whose tags?"

She looked down at them, then tucked them into her shirt.

"Great-great-great-grandfather's. Passed down to everyone in my family who went into active service. Supposedly they're good luck, since no one wearing them has died yet. You gonna tell me who you want dead?"

Hayes sighed. "Here's the target printout."

He picked up a handwritten sheet with a picture stapled to it and set it on the table. Griffin slid it over to herself, narrowed her eyes, and blinked.

"That's a hell of a thing to order a woman to do."

"I know."

"You giving me good gear for this? Because I'm not going to survive for long out there without an exopack and a lot of air. That's going to slow me down."

Hayes smiled. "We planned for that. Remember all the testing you had to go through before we shipped out? That wasn't standard procedure. We needed a DNA sample and a brain scan."

Griffin's eyes widened a fraction. She leaned forward, and a grin played across her mouth. "You didn't."

"We did."

"You grew me one."

"Yes."

She didn't move for a couple of seconds. Then her face cracked into a full smile.

"Sir, I would just like you to know that if you need a damn thing from me ever again, I will do it for free."

"Duly noted." He smiled back for a fraction of a second, then returned to a second file folder in front of him." The avatar wasn't fully mature until now, so I didn't want to tell you until I was sure it wasn't damaged. I'm giving you a week to test it out and learn the forests. You don't get any complex training, since I can't be sure that we won't need you sooner than a week. It'll just be your avatar body in the wild, and you get to figure out how best to survive. Then you get rest and long-rifle practice until you're needed. Hopefully you won't be."

She looked like she was barely listening, but she nodded vigorously. "Yeah. Whatever you want."

"We'll give you everything you need. Antidotes to the Na'vi neurotoxins, topographic maps, NVGs, and any kind of rifle you want. Strikefar, Archer, Fareye. You can even pick the type of steel you want for your knife.

Griffin took that in, and her expression soured. "How far to shit did things go, General?"

He looked her square in the eyes.

"If they attack us, and you don't make this shot, we might lose the war."

* * *

_"Jake!"_

Neytiri was the first one to make it to him, and embraced him so hard that he could feel his spine curve. He blanched and laughed.

_"Easy, easy! I've only been gone a day..."_

He looked over Neytiri's shoulder and realized that the whole tribe had assembled with all their weapons, and far from looking happy that he had returned, they looked grim. He swallowed nervously.

_"What is your plan?"_

Neytiri took a step back. "_They killed Tsu'ral and kidnapped you. We must—"_

_"If they kidnapped me, why did they return me?" _He didn't wait for Neytiri to respond, instead stepping forward, past her, toward the crowd. _"All of you, listen up!"_

They came toward his voice, surrounding him. He wished that he was taller, or had something to stand on, but this spot would have to do. He had to say it now.

_"I was not kidnapped. I went with the Tawtute willingly, to try to assure them that there would be no further danger to their kind. We will not go to war. These humans are not our enemy. They are not our friends, but they will not harm us if we do not force them to. We will not kill them."_

_"We _will_ kill them! They killed Tsu'ral, we will make them pay!"_

Natir. Tsu'ral's mate. There was grief and anger in her words, and the crowd parted for her as she made her way toward Jake, eyes full of tears but gleaming a dangerous, vivid yellow.

_"They killed Tsu'ral, Olo'eytkan. Do not tell me we will not avenge him, or I will challenge you for your place and make you bleed your coward's blood onto the dirt."_

She spat harshly in front of him. A wave of whispering went through the crowd, and Jake put all the iron willpower he could into his stare and looked Natir in the eyes.

_"And what would war accomplish? Would it bring your mate back? Your fool of a mate, the one who would have started the war himself if he had had his way?"_

He looked up and roared out his words._ "Tsu'ral tried to kill their eyktan, and would have brought ruin upon us all! I will not have his actions lead us to the same war we fought before—we have come too far and built too much to be destroyed again."_

He looked back at Natir. _"Would you have us all die for your pain? Or do you not remember the sons you lost in the fire before, the ones for whom you wept for a year before recovering?"_

Natir stepped up to him and drew her knife, and he grabbed her arm with his left hand, stopping her cold. The crowd surged forward, some shocked, others furious.

She pressed forward with all her strength, but Jake had years of muscle and experience on his side. For a few moments they were in a stalemate, their faces inches apart. And then, abruptly, she slumped and released the knife. Jake looked at her hard for a few moments, and she turned slowly around, walking mutely through the crowds that parted for her again. He turned her knife over in his hands before throwing it to the ground, where it clattered sideways in the dirt.

_"We will not go to war. And if any one of you lays a hand upon a Tawtute, if anyone fires a shot in anger or even looses an arrow in the area of a vehicle—" _he drew his knife and hissed. _"I will cut your braid myself."_

* * *

Flash of blue light, rapidly phase-shifting through the entire spectrum. Lightning-laced tunnel into infinity, blinding light, and _then—_

Cayce opened her avatar's eyes to the soft blue light of Polyphemus, blinked, and let out a slow breath. Then closed them again.

"Damn."

She curled her fingers into the alien dirt, feeling every grain of it against the skin of her back. Her nose took in the green smell of the forest, the slightly familiar smell of alien atmosphere, and _then_ she opened her eyes.

She was alone on a patch of forest floor, trees above parted just enough to give a clear view of Polyphemus' big blue spot. But most of the light was from the plants, glowing all kinds of colors that she couldn't give names for.

Her initial attempt to get to her feet was shaky, inner ear sending confused signals to a brain that hadn't quite adjusted to being nine feet tall. She fell on her ass quickly, but that didn't stop her from getting up again, swaying for a moment, and putting her hand up against a tree to steady herself. The moss under her fingers glowed softly, and she grinned.

"Pandora. Damn god _damn."_

She flexed her toes and fingers experimentally, waved her arms, almost overbalanced, and grabbed onto the tree again, shaking her head and grinning.

Abruptly she remembered the significance of what she had just said. And blanched.

Pandora. The world where everything that moved wanted to kill you with claws, poison, or blunt force trauma. Where the tiniest beetle could have enough power in its sting to leave you crippled and screaming until you found release in death a week later. Where even if you were flying in a gunship, watching the tiny land creatures roam about below, a Banshee could rip you to shreds inside of three seconds.

On the flight over, she'd been slotted into a VR sim chamber to learn how Pandora's environments were different from Earth's. Her instructor's words repeated themselves in her head. Loudly.

_Find high ground. You won't be safe, but the higher you climb, the less things will be able to kill you._

"Yeah. About that _climbing_ bit."

She stumbled forward, ears flicking to catch noise, trying to find a tree that she could get up without falling. From her sim training she remembered how roots generally grew far above the ground before merging into the tree itself, and how many were sloped gently enough to climb without effort. But in her avatar body, when every step was an effort in itself, perfect balance was an impossibility. She looked down at her feet and only then realized that she was naked.

"Hayes, you son of a bitch."

She touched her throat, and to her relief found the familiar push-to-talk throat mic in the middle of her elongated neck. She touched the button and spoke.

"Who's listening? Identify!"

No noise from the tiny speaker. She growled in impatience, eyes still seeking out a root. She found one across the clearing and walked unsteadily forward, arms flailing wildly, but keeping her upright. Abruptly the speaker crackled, and she stopped, flailed again, and collapsed face first into the dirt.

"This is Hayes. For safety purposes, the mic broadcasts everything that you say. We replaced the button with a camera, so don't block it if you can help it."

She cursed mentally, then rolled over and spoke.

"Okay. So what's the logic in leaving me here without any clothes, huh? You want to waste a few million dollars' worth of biotech in a couple days?"

Hayes' voice was calm. "Learn fast or die, Griffin. That's the way things work out there. We'll be watching."

Cayce picked herself up, still shaky, and started walking. Just circles around the clearing, not too hurried, but gradually getting faster. She didn't want to risk being there for too long, but balance was something she had to learn.

Walking gradually got easier, as if she'd woken up from cryo a second time and had to re-remember how to use her legs. She ran through a couple of rolls and dives, quick changes of direction, counting time in her head until she was satisfied. She wasn't perfect yet, but then again, at least it hadn't taken longer.

She headed up the root. And this time, she was running.

* * *

"How's she doing?"

"Full sprint for a good two hours now, and she's doing fine. Learning the ropes quickly. She started doing branch and vine swings today, getting from tree to tree faster. Since first contact, she's barely spent five minutes on the ground. Whatever classes she took back home, her instructors taught her well."

Hayes nodded and moved to another monitor, this one a 270-degree wraparound. With a few taps on the keyboard he brought up the log of Cayce's second day, fast-forwarding to a part he'd bookmarked earlier. Then he started the recording and leaned back, watching the wide-angle view of her first contact with the indigenous.

Cayce was resting against a tree, sitting on a branch at least a hundred feet above the ground. There was a tiny sound above her, barely audible through the throat mic, but she leapt to her feet and turned as an arrow slammed into the tree trunk she had been resting her head against. Pivoting, she grabbed the arrow and snapped it over her knee, then gripped it like a knife by the remaining length of shaft.

A Na'vi landed beside her, bow slung across its chest and a pistol at its waist. But before it could even hiss, Cayce had tackled it back onto the branch, stabbed it in the heart, and then slit its throat.

Hayes grinned. She was definitely the one that he wanted. When he had said there were humans who could take on Na'vi hand-to-hand, he hadn't been joking.

"Could've just shot me, you stupid son of a bitch." She spit on the wide-eyed corpse and started appropriating what she could—clothing, even though it was slightly too large for her, the knife and its sheath, and the bow with its three arrows. She looked at it a long time before nodding in satisfaction, slinging it over her back, and sitting down to rest again, breathing normally. After a few moments, she kicked the corpse off the branch and watched it fall, along with the pistol still holstered at its side. Blood, still pulsing from the slit jugular, arced into the air.

Hayes paused the recording and leaned back in his chair.

"General! Something!"

He sat for a moment, then walked back to the other screen. The view showed Cayce with her bow drawn, aiming at a creature Hayes hadn't seen except in fuzzy aerial scans. His eyes narrowed.

"A thanator?"

"Yes sir. Do you want me to send in Arrow Squadron to cover her?"

He thought a moment. "No. We'll see how she does on her own. If her avatar dies, we'll just delay a few days while we train the next operative. Besides, I think she can handle this."

The thanator growled, sensory quills extending, teeth long and sharp in its mouth. Cayce didn't flinch. The arrow drew back further on the screen, and then instantly it was gone, vanished into one of the thanator's eyes. Its scream almost went beyond the range of hearing, and instead of lunging, it clawed madly at the arrow embedded in its skull. Cayce snorted, nocked another arrow, and aimed. As the thanator reared up, the next arrow vanished, gone into the creature's throat. It tried to howl, but the only outward sign of it was a high-pitched keening and a spurt of blood through its punctured windpipe.

"How about that. Bad boy of Pandora, huh? Maybe my assignment won't be that bad after all."

Hayes smiled and leaned over the monitoring tech's console, then tapped a button.

"How'd you learn to shoot like that, Cayce? A bow and arrow seems like it'd be a bit old fashioned for your taste."

She laughed. "Back home, when I was a kid, I used to love archery. It was how I relaxed. Could shoot quarters off a stand with needlepoint heads and drill them into a wall. My parents got pissed about that after a while."

She re-slung the bow, looking carefully at the dying thanator. Then pulled it off her back again and nocked the last arrow.

"Where's your brain, you bastard..."

The monitor's view shifted as she moved slightly, arrow steady, bowstring taut. She crouched down and held still for a moment, and then her last arrow vanished into the creature's other eye. There was no scream this time—the thanator simply dropped, slid from the branch it had been crouched on, and hit another one with a sickening crack. It didn't move after that.

Cayce sighed. "Got to go get the arrows back now."

Hayes chuckled openly. "So modest. Just killed the deadliest land beast on Pandora, and all you think to say is that now you have to get your arrows back?"

A laugh. "Yeah? Well you try pulling them out after they've lodged two feet in soft tissue. Even in this body, it's not exactly going to be easy, is it? I'm going to stay quiet now, though. I want to make sure it's dead before I go down there. No sense getting the arrows back if I get my arm clawed off."

Hayes stood back from the console and watched her graceful descent from one tree limb to the next, sighed, and walked back to his own monitor. He wished that he could watch her progress for longer, but there were other things to attend to. Administrative desk work. He shook his head and sighed again, more loudly. Sometimes he wished he could have his own avatar, just so he could run off somewhere and escape the crushing mindwork of planning. But he sat down in his chair and reset his screens, and before he could think of the impossible again he was back in his element.

* * *

"_We can't just sit here while they prepare."_

"_And we can't afford another war either." _Jake mustered all his control to stop himself from slamming a fist onto the ground. _"For all our planning, we are still weak in many places. We do not have their technology, and we do not have the means to defend ourselves if they use another shuttle as a bomber. Hayes is not stupid, and will not make Quaritch's mistakes."_

Neytiri gestured angrily. _"But they will attack us no matter what we do! We have what they want!"_

"_And if they can get it without killing us, they will." _Jake gritted his teeth. _"The last time the humans made war, they came for Hometree. And now Hometree is gone. All that they want is beneath it. If we can give them that, then they will leave us be."_

"_But how can you be _sure?"

"_I can't! I don't know everything!"_

He hissed and slammed on the wall of the tree. Neytiri went quiet, along with the few other Na'vi that were standing nearby. They knew better than to interfere. Jake might not have been a true Na'vi, but he had the strength of one, and the skill and cunning of two. In a culture of warriors, Jake was still the best of them all.

They sat in silence for a while before Neytiri found her voice.

"_I have not seen you angry like this since the first war."_

Jake snorted. "_There has been little to be angry about."_

"_Why is it you hesitate now? When you planned Skyfire you did not stop to think about the lives you would take."_

Jake threw up his hands. _"Is it such a strange thing to not want people to die?"_

"_Balance means sacrifice."_ She looked at him pleadingly. "_When you fought with us in the first war, you understood that some needed to die so that the Omaticaya might survive. Eywa knew this to be true. If we do not act now, more of us will die. And the Omaticaya are not as strong as they were before."_

"_It is not the SAME!" _He bared his teeth. _"These are different men, better men! They are not the savage ones who came before who would do anything to claim what they thought was theirs. They are concerned for themselves, yes, but they know who we are and what we can do. They have learned from before as I hoped they would, and they will not kill us if we do not do anything to harm them! Is it so hard to understand that they seek peace too?"_

"_They are Tawtute, Jake!"_

"_Grace was Tawtute! Norm, Max, they are Tawtute!"_

"_But—"_

"I_ WAS TAWTUTE!"_

He screamed it in her face, eyes full of fury and pain. She recoiled and shrank away. Other Na'vi rose from where they were crouched, hands on knives and pistols. Jake turned as he heard them and bared his teeth.

"_Will you kill your leader? I could kill you with my hands even if you wielded your knives against me. If you will not challenge me then sit and be silent, and let me talk in peace."_

The other Na'vi sat, still staring concernedly. Neytiri was still curled up, small and frail. Jake reached down to her and she turned her face away, hugging her knees.

"_Neytiri, stop."_

She started singing something in Na'vi, a soft eerie song that Jake could only hear fragments of. It scared him.

"_Neytiri."_

She sang like she was trying to pretend she wasn't there. It should have made him concerned, but instead it made him furious.

"_NEYTIRI!"_

She stopped and looked up at him, arms curled around her knees, eyes full of tears waiting to fall.

"_What?"_

He looked down, face set in a snarl, hand raised to strike her out of her fear. But he held it, breathing in his own anger, and stormed out of the tree into the night.


	9. Chapter IX: The Breaking

_Can you still do it?_

_If I can, I will. If not, I'll kill my avatar trying._

_Good to hear. How's the rifle training going?_

_Slow, but improving. I'm used to the rifle being huge, but now I can shoulder-fire it like a goddamn .22, and my reactions are too exaggerated to keep it on target. I need to build up the muscle memory a little bit, maybe three days. _

_What if you needed to hit targets at range with the bow?_

_The bow? Hell, I could go now if you wanted me to. _

_Good. Forget the rifle training. Take the bow and the arrows you've got and practice with them. No others. Try your best not to break them, since you need at least one to make your shot._

_Why the change?_

_They've got guns, but for hunting they still use bows, at least that's what Sully told me._

_So you want to make the kill look like one of them._

_Exactly._

_What are you trying to do?_

_I've only seen a little bit of what they have to use against us. We've got scanners, but they're too far out to pick up on anything small, traps or otherwise. We don't know their full capabilities. But Sully does. And this kill is going to bring Sully over to us._

_I—sir?_

_What?_

_It... _

_It saves my men and women from dying in the traps they've probably set. It gives me the ability to see how they'll attack, before they do. I can jam their weapons, blow up their traps, and make them move without killing a single person. But only if I do this._

_You just met the man, and now you're going to break him? Just like that?_

_Don't make me think about it too hard. I have enough trouble ordering it. And I have to talk with him after. That will be the hardest._

* * *

The draw was always the hardest part.

Cayce started to breathe and kept breathing through the draw, visualizing the tension as a balloon in her chest, taking a little more air for every inch the string that she pulled. And then the string was resting against her nose. Set.

_Kai._ Full draw.

She held the breath and the tension for five seconds, then extended a finger of her grip hand toward the target. It was little more than a dot in the distance, so far away that there was no bullseye to aim for, no head or heart. Just a dot.

_Hanare._ Release.

She continued holding the breath as the arrow flew, high at first, then arcing, then down. She couldn't see where it had hit, even with her avatar's eyes. Slowly she let out her breath and let the bow drop down in front of her. With an involuntary bow that she had picked up from her teacher, the shot was over.

She ran to the target at a jog, feeling acutely the strain in her muscles from the previous week's training. It was still hazy, as if her skin and muscles were wrapped in heating blankets. But she could sense the pain of healing, the hot itch that came with new strength.

When she came to the target she knelt down and bowed forward, hands pressed together, and then rose. The arrow was lodged in the centerline of the target, just below the sternum. The first had hit the neck, and the second had slipped between the ribs and would have taken the heart. All would have been fatal, although the neurotoxin alone could have done the job.

She extracted the arrows with great care. Two were lodged so deep in the target that only the fletching was showing, and the last had passed entirely through and buried itself a foot into the ground beyond.

When she finally had the last arrow back in hand, she let out a long breath and let herself relax completely. That was the way she had been taught. The process ended when the last arrow was recovered. She mentally thanked her teacher at L'Academie de la Lune, the one who had first introduced her Kyūdō. The bow she was using now wasn't the asymmetric _Yumi_ she was used to, but it was certainly tall enough, and the principles of focus still applied. And the results, she reflected, had certainly been nothing to complain about.

It was morning, although she couldn't tell. There were no cycles of light and dark, just Polyphemus' blue glow and the bioluminescence of the forest beyond the slowly expanding base. There was noise everywhere, A.M.P suits straining to lift heavy loads here and there, building barracks, armories, command bunkers. The perimeter had already been set, the concrete platforms laid down thick, save for the thin strip where she practiced. And yet in the middle of all the noise she was an ocean of calm. Kyūdō and t'ai chi ch'uan had been a part of her life for so many years now that she couldn't even remember being without them. Somehow the memories seemed to have stretched back into her childhood, and she could see her six-year-old self practicing the forms in her house, even though she hadn't even known the words for the discipline.

"Ready?"

Hayes again, via the neckband link. Cayce nodded involuntarily before replying.

"Yeah. Got my arrows. Got my clothes. Don't need anything else."

"You know where you're going?"

"Mhm." She laid the arrows over her arm, looking at the heads carefully. They still had a mother-of-pearl glitter to them, which meant there was some neurotoxin left. But they weren't as deadly as she would have wanted. She'd fix that along the way.

"Updates hourly. And be careful. Hayes out."

The link went silent. Cayce breathed in and closed her eyes for a second, letting herself rise onto the tips of her toes, as if the breath made her lighter. She kept rising, stretching her arms up, her bow and her arrows, until she could breathe no more.

And then she let it out.

When she opened her eyes, there was no warmth left. All the smiles, the happy memories, all the grins and smirks and laughs were gone from them. The golden retinas had gone flat. In her face there was no mark of emotion, no line of stress or pain. There was blankness, and there was focus.

And there was death.

* * *

"Sir?"

Hayes looked up from the table in the safe room, then waved a hand.

"Out."

"You wanted to see me, sir."

"Out. I'll talk to you later. Lock the door."

The psychologist almost asked again, but kept his mouth shut. There were some things he didn't want to push.

He nodded his acquiescence and walked out, locking the door behind him.

Hayes squeezed his eyes shut so tightly it hurt and dragged his hands over his face, trying not to slam them into the table in front of him.

He'd ordered assassinations many times before, in almost every theater of war he'd been involved in. Few knew. But he knew, and that was enough. All the weight came down on him.

But this time it wasn't the killing itself that was crushing him. He didn't know the person he'd ordered dead. It was the result that weighed on his mind, the knowledge that as soon as the shot had been taken Sully would never be the same. And he knew that if the plan worked as he hoped, he'd have to face Sully and know that he had been the cause of his pain.

There was a single folder on the table in front of him, the same one he'd passed across to Cayce. He opened it.

Inside there was a brief paper printout of the vital statistics, known residence, known associates. And beneath it there was a single picture, the full frame filled with her face. Smiling. Scrawled on the top in his handwriting there was her name.

One word.

Neytiri.

* * *

She was walking next to Jake when she died.

One moment she was pleading with him to go to the Tree of Souls for guidance, trying to make him see that Eywa would know the answer, Eywa would tell him that the Tawtute would betray them and they would all be lost. But in the middle of his angry reply she felt like someone had pounded on the back of her neck with a fist, and she turned to Jake even as she was pulling away, afraid of him. But when she tried to tell him _stop, please,_ she realized there was something wrong. Something very wrong.

She felt at her throat and there was a hole.

She stumbled away from him. She could still hear his voice, angry at first and then soft for a moment, questioning, curious, like it had been when he'd met her. And then she fell backward, her limbs suddenly not obeying her. She never fell. What was wrong? Why was she falling?

And there was Jake, his eyes wide and golden bright above her, fumbling for leaves from nearby plants. Her head shook a few times and she couldn't seem to hold it still. She was cold. How? Even the worst nights were not this cold. She shivered and shivered until her limbs were moving everywhere, and when she tried to cry out there was a choking _hhak_ of noise and a spray of red. Jake was saying something but he was so far away. His eyes looked like the stars, so _far—_

* * *

_Neytiri no. Hey. Look at me. Look._

_Neytiri please, don't—just a little more, I can fix it, I can fix it. Look, I got the leaves, okay? Just hold on okay?_

_Just—hey, please, come ON! Don't give up like that, I'm going to make it okay, just stay with me, look at me, damn it LOOK AT ME!_

_Hey, hey! No, goddamn it! NO! Don't—GOD DAMN IT DON'T YOU FUCKING DIE! DON'T YOU FUCKING DIE!_

_I love you god damn it, you can't—you can't,_

_you can't, you can't,_

_you can't,_

_you can't..._

_Neytiri._

_Neytiri?_

_Neytiri—_

_NEYTIRI!_

* * *

There was a sound in his throat that should never have existed, something that made the others that heard cover their ears and shudder. It was not human, not Na'vi. Even at the destruction of Hometree no one had made this sound, and those who heard it trembled and tears started in their eyes.

He lay on top of Neytiri and shook her until her head lolled and spittle flew from her open mouth, mixed with a froth of blood. Her eyes were half-open, gold already fading. When he lifted her arms they moved like liquid, folding along the joints. He lifted her tail and it fell. He picked it up again and pulled and there was no pull in return, no response, it fell.

It _fell._ Even in his shock he wondered at it. When she was asleep it still twitched, still pulled back.

It _fell._

He picked her head up and it was heavy. He could feel the hole where the arrow had passed. He shivered and shivered and when he tried to bring her up he felt at the ragged edge of her spine and dropped her back, and she fell again, no pause, no motion.

There was pain on the edge of his thoughts, something looming and dark that he could feel like the Toruk bearing down on him from above. There were claws in his mind, ripping. Something he could feel but not yet know.

Neytiri. They had killed Neytiri.

_Why?_

Why would they have killed her? Why not him? Or had they missed him and killed her instead? His fault. Walking with her out in the open, so close together. Such an easy shot to miss, walking side by side like that. Such close targets.

They had killed her. His people, the ones he had led and trusted.

He looked down at Neytiri's body. Such a strange thing, so lost and full of stillness.

He pulled out his knife. The blade was an _ikran_ talon, strong and filed to a rough edge. It had been many years since he had made it, and it had not failed him. Not in battle, not in life. He tested it with a thumb and it drew blood.

He lifted his braid and touched the knife to it.

And _pulled—_

* * *

His senses were blind.

There was a mass of pain in the back of his head but he could not feel anything. He stepped through the forest like he was drunk and plant spines did not hurt him, sharp leaves did not faze him. He couldn't feel the touch of the grass or the breath of the wind. And he would never feel another mind ever again. Not ever.

Neytiri.

He threw up into the grass and kept walking.

Neytiri.

They had killed Neytiri.

Why.

_Why?_

Tsu'di. What of his daughter? The one who he had seen so little of since the fire had come from the sky? Would they kill her because there was part of him in her too? Or would they teach her to hate him, as they all did?

He stumbled through the traps that were too low for him to trip, looking up at the wires strung up above for drones and Scorpions. Hayes. Hayes had to know. He would know what to do. He could beat them. How could he have walked away? How could he have believed that they could have peace when there were people who would try to kill him? Who had killed Neytiri? He put a hand to his head and kept going.

Quaritch had been right. Selfridge. RDA. They had been right. All of them. They were animals. Animals. Like the Banshees, the Direhorses.

Animals.

How had he not seen it? How could he have been so blind? Had Neytiri been the only one who was more than that? He kept walking, his legs as confused as his thoughts.

He stopped.

For a moment he swayed, his sense of balance gone. The wind blew against the ragged ends of his braid and he shivered.

He tried to feel something for Neytiri, for Tsu'di. For anything. But there was nothing.

Just a yawning emptiness in his chest, and in his heart.

* * *

Cayce had tracked Jake as far as the edge of the forest, and then waited. If she'd allowed herself to feel it would have been a painful thing to watch. He'd stumbled and fallen so many times it was a wonder he was still alive. He was scratched and beaten and bleeding and the animals of the forest all avoided him, fearful of the pain he was giving off in waves, the way he didn't seem to see his surroundings. They snapped and snarled at him, but every time one seemed about to attack they fell back, whimpering. He was unnatural.

"Hayes," she whispered. "Sully's almost back at base. Tell the guards and the turrets to stand down."

There was a moment of silence.

"Acknowledged."

Through the thinning trees she could see the flat grey airfields, the tall silhouettes of the turrets, the buzzing, floating Phoenixes orbiting the base for overwatch. They had strict orders not to fire on any humanoid shapes, but everyone was tense, and even the best made mistakes. Occasionally.

Hayes' voice sounded over the line again. "Turrets are down, and Phoenixes have confirmation of Sully's position. We'll take it from here. Hayes out."

The two Phoenixes turned hard in opposite directions and then dived, hovering about two hundred feet off the ground, guns fixed on Sully. But he just kept walking. Not one second's pause. Eventually he started to slow as he realized there was no gap in the perimeter wall, but by that time Hayes had gotten a Samson up and was hovering down next to him. From the distance she was at, there was no way she could know what they were saying, but she could guess.

_What happened?_

_They killed Neytiri._

_Who?_

_They did._

And then Hayes would motion Sully into the Samson and they would fly back into the base to talk.

She felt a twinge of sadness leaking through her hunter's calm and was about to crush it until she realized that there was no need. The mission was over. She breathed in once, deeply, visualizing all of her steely calm and emotionless precision collecting into her lungs. And then she blew it out in a massive exhalation that sent leaves fluttering.

It hit her then, what she had done. That she had killed a man's wife, a man's wife who had done nothing to her, a man who had tried with all his resources to seek peace and prosperity for both their races. It hit her and she clapped a hand over her mouth and tried not to sob too loudly, because it hurt, it _hurt,_ because there must have been some other way, some way to do this without hurting, without killing...

The voice link crackled.

"Cayce, this is Base. We've got a ground entrance open for you, number 5B. Head straight to Holding for your transition, Hayes' orders."

She breathed silently until she could be sure her voice wouldn't tremble. "Okay."

That was it. She slung her bow and arrows and dropped down through the branches, and broke into a sprint for the edge of the forest. The sooner she could sleep in her human body, the better. She'd been in the avatar nonstop for longer than she wanted to think about. Her mind needed a rest.

* * *

Hans Zeiher was lifting materials for the barracks he'd be living in, and having not a small amount of trouble. The problem with the combat model A.M.P suits was that they'd been intended as combat-_only. _So the gun barrels attached to the arms not only extended beyond the hands, but were hard as hell to remove and reattach in any short period of time. So any time he tried to lift up a concrete block his barrel would slam into it and ring like a bell, and he would wince and try to be more careful every time thereafter.

He was in the middle of lifting his fiftieth block when he saw Hayes and Sully get out of a Samson and walk toward the command building. He did a double take in the A.M.P suit, and nearly dropped the block he was holding. As he turned the barrel clipped a steel support column and the ring brought him back into the present. After setting down the block he disengaged his hands from the suit's controls and whispered a quiet, questioning curse into the cramped cockpit.

If they had Sully again, what did that mean? Was the war over? Was their mission complete? Or was it worse than they had all thought?

He was tempted to lumber over to Hayes, suit and all, and ask what the hell was going on. But that wouldn't do. Friendly or not, he was still their commander, and he owed a bit of respect. If they needed to know, he would tell them eventually.

Almost as soon as he'd had the thought, his voice link crackled to life.

* * *

_"This is General Hayes."_

The base was silent. Everyone stopped moving—the soldiers in exopacks, the A.M.P suits with their construction work, the Phoenixes in the skies. Everyone stopped.

_"Jake Sully has just returned to our base. He didn't do so because he particularly likes us. He didn't see us rain down out of the sky and immediately want to join our cause. But the Na'vi have just killed his wife. And now he is angry."_

Silence, still. Quiet breaths inside of cockpits, long hissing sighs inside the hardened plastic facemasks of exopacks. Everyone waited.

_"He is going to help us. If the Na'vi attack, we will know where to strike and how hard. If we attack them, then we will know what traps to avoid, where to walk, where to fly. We will learn their strategies inside and out. And we will win."_

More breaths, louder now. The day had come. Combat was close at hand. The ones newer to war were excited; the older ones simply closed their eyes. What would come would come.

_"This is an opportunity that is not given lightly. So let me make this clear: Jake Sully is to be treated with the utmost respect. He is a guest, and an honored one at that. Anyone who so much as lays a hand on him will be charged with endangering the mission. Anyone who is unfortunate enough to think that they stand a chance in killing him will be killed in return, if Sully doesn't kill them first."_

There was a pause, a breath._ "Sully has made his mistakes and he has learned from them. It has not been an easy learning. But now he will help us because we are all that we have. He was once human. A good soldier. And a soldier he remains."_

The link cut out.


	10. Chapter X: Containment

_You have to make peace with this yourself. It's your decision, and it just saved the lives of a lot of people._

_Dammit, can't you just tell me whether or not—_

_No._

_It's your fucking job to help me. _

_I'm a psychologist, Hayes. I don't have the training to tell you whether or not what you did was absolutely right or wrong. Hell, I doubt anyone does, especially if they claim to be able to. What I do is talk things out. I don't give you pills, I don't give you shots. And this is something I can't just tell you. Yes, you hurt one person deeply. But you may have saved many. Time will tell._

_I want to shoot myself._

_You did this because you believed that it was the best option, and that's what matters here. You didn't do it out of malice to Sully. I heard your conversation with him, I heard you forgive him. I realize how hard it must be to keep that in your head, but I don't believe you are a bad person for wanting to protect your men._

_That helps. A bit._

_Here's something else. I've worked with generals before, and commanders, and a lot of them were some really messed up people. Ordered assassinations more because they enjoyed it than for any strategic effect. And they barely felt a thing. They came to me because they were conflicted over affairs, other marital problems, over drug use—nothing like PTSD or any of that. They might at one point have realized how far they had fallen, but eventually they started ignoring it. You're one of the few I've seen who really feels the responsibility of being in command, who cares not only about the lives of your men but also those of the ones you're fighting. And that's a gift. It hurts to care, but you're smarter and stronger for it. And your men love you for it._

_That helps too. _

_What's that blinking on your watch?_

* * *

The first proximity alarm sounded at 0400.

There was a thunder of boots in the halls, and Hayes joined the crowd in the stampede to the airfield. Floodlights had turned night into a fluorescent day, but there was firelight flickering in the forests around the edge of the base, and a few of the pilots paused to look before heading to their gunships.

By the time he made it into the Dragon, the comm channels were hot with urgent chatter and the perimeter turrets were stitching holes in the banshees that dared to come close enough. Tracers blazed and burned and there were screeches of pain from animals that most humans would never get the chance to see. Hayes breathed a ragged breath, fear settling in his stomach. Then he set his jaw and pulled a helmet over his head.

"This is Dragon Lead, Dragon Lead. Fang, Arrow, Spear, in the air, I say again, in the air. Set visors to MAX VIS and hold perimeter cover until we get imagery. Viper, Tiger, Bull, load up and wait by your entrances, standby for my exit command. If I'm hit, Dragon Two is second in command. Over."

The deep roar of turbines was reassuring. Acknowledgements sounded on all the squadron channels. In the Dragon's rear command seat, Hayes watched the pilot and copilot key launch sequences, and suddenly the craft lifted and the canopy covers filtered over to night vision with thermal overlay. And he saw the scale.

The sky was full.

"All phoenixes, altitude, altitude! Get above them fast as you can. Weapons free, engage all hostiles but do not pursue. Maintain formation and break to counter."

Affirmatives. The assault ship, heavy as it was, lifted into the air at half the rate of the phoenixes, but the missile and gun pods flared hot and bright lines intersected flying shapes all across the night. Fire dripped from shattered corpses of banshees, and far below the ship the forest started to burn.

"This is Arrow Lead. There are a lot of these damn things, over."

"This is Dragon Lead, keep after them. Get as many as you can. Watch for Na'vi with weaponry. Over."

It was mesmerizing. The sky was a shifting lattice of thousands of thermal hotspots, so thick that the stars couldn't show through. Mountain and forest banshees, tetrapterons, giant hexapedes. Everything, all at once.

Then a wing of banshees swooped down, and riding on top of them were Na'vi. Hayes had enough chance to see the launchers they were holding before they fired, and before anyone could deploy countermeasures three of the phoenixes were down.

Just like that.

"This is Dragon Lead, all phoenix squadrons, evade, evade, evade. Over."

The formation broke and more rockets streaked across the night. Two more hit, four others missed. Banshees wheeled and dived away from the cloud, and autocannons spit fire at them, tracking and connecting. Below, the perimeter turrets shot at what was in range, hitting only occasionally.

"Dragon Lead, this is Devil's Throne, please respond, over."

Devil's Throne. Base operations. If Hell's Gate had been at the edge of he firestorm, they were in its center. Hayes fleetingly remembered the officer who'd suggested the name, then keyed the comm.

"Devil's Throne, this is Dragon Lead. What is your situation, over?"

"We have explosives coming down on our command building, we need more air cover. Request permission to send up the other phoenix squadrons, over."

He'd forgotten. _Forgotten._ In the middle of the battle, men fighting, men dying, he'd forgotten that there were more to call.

"Send them up. Double time. Over."

"Acknowledged, out."

He allowed himself a moment of shock, then froze it and checked the TACMAP. No decrease in marked contacts. Thirteen out of thirty phoenixes down. Five damaged. A.M.P squads holding. Three out of thirty perimeter turrets inoperative.

He hit the comm.

"All squadrons, all squadrons. Switch to auto-target and let 'em all loose, over."

There was a second's pause where the noise of the fight stayed the same. Guns buzzed and missiles roared. Exhaust trails left thin wisps in their wake. And then there was a wash of red-orange that filled the cockpit when every active phoenix let off their remaining missiles, and each tracked a different target, flew, and exploded.

Seventeen remaining phoenixes. Roughly a hundred and fifty missiles each.

* * *

What Zeiher saw below was the fireball.

It started with a couple of flares and then expanded until it seemed to fill the sky, thousands of points of light that defined a huge curve above him. He tinted his canopy to maximum and it still seemed like daylight had come early.

Then the rain began. Bits of bone. Flesh still burning. Blood spatters, claws, eyes. Heads. A whole Na'vi landed on his squadmate and burst, and he recoiled in shock, then raised his arms as a banshee came down after and landed with a heavy, wet sound just beside his canopy.

There was blood, instant and everywhere. He set the washers to full and tried to cover under the suit's arms, but there was such a rain that it didn't matter. Blood pooled in the joints and the downpour was a hurricane of remnants, something he had never seen, never even dreamed of. It was something out of a horror story he had kept in the back of his mind, fuel for nightmares.

* * *

Mattisson let his craft hang as the skies started to clear. And cried.

* * *

Kel was in the prefab medical wing when a Na'vi crashed through the skylight.

The breach alarm sounded immediately, and metal doors slammed shut over the window. Kel grabbed the exopack on his bedside table and sealed it, then unholstered his sidearm and aimed. He would have moved to secure weaponry, but stem cell therapy only worked so fast, and he had a tendon wound.

The Na'vi wasn't moving. He looked bad; the glass had torn up his skin, and without any armor or clothing there had been nothing to protect him from every loose piece he'd landed on. His foot was at a strange angle, and his right arm. But he was alive. That much Kel could see. Possibly unconscious, but alive.

"Hey SIS boy, toss me something I can shoot, yeah?"

Strom. Of the occupants of the med wing, almost all had been put there by the Hell's Gate assault, and Strom was one of the few off meds. His pistol's safety was off, the round already chambered. Moving slowly, he shifted the gun to his left hand and drew a holdout flechette pistol—a Dies Kompact shettier—from an arm pocket, checked its safety, and tossed it to Strom without taking his eyes from the Na'vi. There was a brief grunt of acknowledgement and a tiny click. The safety.

"What you figure, dead?"

"Unconscious." Kel swept the scene again. Not much blood, surprisingly, but then again they had always known the Na'vi were thicker skinned. No broken bones either, but with corded bones instead of calcified that was hardly a novel realization.

Then he noticed the hand had five fingers.

Norm. Or Max. The only two avatar drivers on-planet.

"Avatar. Probably de-synced from shock. You good to move?"

A laugh. "Maybe. Let's see." She swung her legs out from under the thermal blanket and winced. "Ribs are acting up again. Cover me, yeah?"

"Covering."

She moved slowly, too slowly for Kel's liking. But she was moving, and it was more than he could do. There was a muttering from the others in the wing, but he kept his attention locked on the Na'vi's hands. No motion.

"Heavy sucker, this guy." Another grunt and the avatar was on its back, and Strom was coughing. After a moment she bent down and retrieved a pistol from a thigh holster, then a knife, tossing them both under Kel's bed. He nodded approval.

"See any rope?"

"In a med wing? Bandages maybe, but no rope." She scanned around. "Got combat bandages, carbon fiber overlay. That work?"

"Splendidly."

She hobbled over to a cabinet and Kel realized then just how extensive her wounds were. In the open-back medical gown he could see the bandages that plastered her back and shoulders, the braces locked around her ribs, the ugly patchwork of scar tissue along the bottom of her right leg. And she was still walking.

He smiled. Tough nut to crack.

"Cover."

"Covering."

She flipped the avatar over again, wheezed for a moment, and then started binding its hands and legs. A moment later and the job was done, the bandages taut and secure. She straightened too fast and then doubled over, hands on her knees, one finger still along the trigger guard of the borrowed shettier. Kel stayed patiently on target as she returned to her bed and climbed in, trying to hide her harder breathing.

"Fuckin' ribs." She spat onto the floor. No blood, but when you'd had to deal with bloody saliva it was a hard habit to break. Kel nodded.

"I've had the same. Recovery's a harsh bitch, but it's not the worst."

"What is? Tendon?"

"Spine."

She winced. "Would be, wouldn't it. Want me to cover for a bit?"

"I've got him." He adjusted his grip on the pistol, then laid it in his lap, ready to bring up if needed. "Dial yours over to sedate, if you please. If he's not dead there's a good chance we'll want to hear what he has to say."

"Got it." A click. "Done. Who you think this is, anyone important?"

Tough, but not observant. "An avatar."

"No shit?"

"Mm."

She let out a breath. "That's a bargaining chip in our favor, for sure."

Kel nodded, checked the avatar's hands, and started to relax. "We may hope."

* * *

Tsu'kai had been a lieutenant before, but now that Jakesully was gone he was Olo'eyktan. And this was his second war.

On his neckband link, the remaining voices were mostly screams. Norm had gone silent, and Tsu'di, and Natir, and all of the other group leaders. Whether that was because they were dead or laying low he wasn't sure, but with the covering flock gone there was no real chance of stealth, or of accomplishing what they had all been trying for: taking out the perimeter cover and meeting the invaders on foot, inside, where they were weak.

But the _fire—_

He swept right, using firelight to gauge distance on the perimeter turrets. They had taken five and made a space many branch-lengths wide, but he wasn't sure if that would be enough. He made a closer pass and heard nothing, and no fire came to greet him. No thunder.

A crackle came through the neckband link.

_"Tsu'kai, this is Norm, they have me in a room where they heal their sick and wounded, there's a window—"_

A slight sigh, then silence.

He closed his eyes and touched the link.

_"This is Tsu'kai. Whoever is left, and the rearguard, follow me through. We will do what we can."_

There was a brief chatter, and then he spurred his _ikran_ forward, others behind.

The base was eerily quiet. There were a few putting out fires, others still running to the flying monsters, others in their metal shells pacing slowly around. But the guns had stopped, and most of the flying monsters were still high above, otherwise occupied. He made it through the perimeter and was heading to the main building, but suddenly below him there was a heavy _THUMP-THUMP-THUMP_ and his _ikran_'s wing sagged, and he was falling down into the building as the thunder behind him grew louder and the wind tried to stretch his cheeks into strange shapes. He tried to control his mount but it was dead, had been from the very first bullet.

The impact sent blood spraying, but he lived.

The roof was flat, and he looked around for entrances. Behind him others landed their _ikran_ and pulled guns and knives, dropping to prone. He waited as more came down, eyes alert, and when there were twenty he nodded and waved a hand.

At the first window, Tsu'kai broke a pane with the hilt of his knife. Metal sheets closed immediately. He motioned to another in the group, and with barely a pause the warrior held down the trigger on his gun, and the bullets tore chunks out of the steel. Loud noises sounded from below. The one who'd held the gun kicked the remnants in stepped back, and before anyone else could move Tsu'kai was through.

His first bow shot pinned a man to the wall, the second took a throat and almost a head. His knife was out and there was a third man who tried to bring up a knife of his own, but the Na'vi was faster and then there was no hand, then no arm to resist him.

Others dropped down, and gunfire made his ears ring. He pulled his arrows from the wall. And walked to a door, stooping to enter.

The next room was a link chamber.

He recognized it from Hell's Gate, the rings of covered beds where the _tawtute_ lay, the multicolored glass, the lights. As he entered figures in white stopped and turned, startled. Then almost immediately the shooting began.

The ones behind him opened up, pulling fresh magazines and jamming down on triggers, cutting the _tawtute _in half with their weapons, riddling link beds, smashing the glass, hitting lights and walls and sending bullets ricocheting from every possible surface until the room was full of smoke and screams and the smell of death.

The clamor faded and Tsu'kai lowered his bow.

There were moans, gurgles. Sounds of gasps from torn throats, sucking of bullet-fractured lungs, the raw grating of bone. They moved out into the room and killed who remained, shooting through the link beds at whoever might have been inside.

* * *

Through her link Griffin was aware of a dull ache. Then almost immediately she was human and in darkness, and her leg was shattered and bloody and she was screaming murder into the link bed.

The cover opened and smoke poured in. She forced herself out and onto the ground, down to the floor and under the first table she could find. The pain. The _pain._ Her leg was not just broken but actually flopping, the knee ragged and almost disconnected. She could see bone and tendon and shuddered, shivered, then took off her shirt and wrapped it just above the knee, pulling as tightly as she could with no regard for the agony it was causing her. Tears came, but she pulled, twisted, tied a knot. She couldn't stop shaking, but it was done. She would live for now.

A shape loomed and there was a fist in her hair, and she was lifted screaming into the air.

For a moment training deserted her. She was a scared child in the hands of a leering bully, afraid and in pain. Then the anger surged in her. She wondered at this Na'vi that dared to come into _her_ home and shoot _her_ leg and try to kill _her,_ and knew that this was not something that could go unpunished.

She twisted and drove an elbow into the Na'vi's throat. It dropped her, and her good leg held long enough for a short palm shot to the knee, driving it backward far enough to tear. The Na'vi collapsed and she was on it within a moment, palms clapped to the temples and then a quick twist. All motion stopped. She gave the corpse a once-over and found a pistol, loaded, and a rifle dropped a few steps away.

She couldn't see any others around, no blue legs or feet. Retrieving the rifle she dragged herself against the wall, breath coming short, and set her back to it.

The rife was heavy, but it had a full magazine. She hefted it and waited.

* * *

The reports were coming in from every possible comm link, and Hayes, for once, was having trouble sorting them all out. The skies were being mopped up, and the other phoenix squadrons were pursuing the survivors. The A.M.P squads were serving overwatch for the areas not covered by turrets. But now the Na'vi were inside, and Hayes was at a loss.

"Dragon Lead this is Devil's Throne, please advise—"

"Dragon Lead this is Arrow Lead requesting orders—"

"Dragon lead this is Viper Lead requesting permission to—"

He pulled off his helmet for a moment.

Inside. The inside was the most pressing.

He put the helmet back on.

"This is Dragon Lead. Devil's Throne, muster all available security personnel and set them to guard the reactor. Once that's secured task Alpha and Bravo squads with cleanup, protocol White Glove, over."

"Acknowledged, Dragon. Taskings going out, over."

He switched to the A.M.P channel. "Viper and Bull squads, form a perimeter around the command building and eliminate all visible hostiles. If you can get shots through windows, you are authorized to take them. Tiger squad, continue overwatch, over."

Affirmatives and acknowledgements.

"Arrow Lead, pull your squadron down and strafe the command building rooftops, kill the banshees left there. No missiles, repeat, no missiles, over."

"Acknowledge, Dragon. Taking them down, over."

His craft hovered at altitude, and the scans showed the turn of tide. There was sporadic chatter from the security squads, bursts of gunfire, code references and clearing orders. From the A.M.P channels he could hear the heavy thumps of GAU-90s, the terse German shorthand of some of the pilots. And on the phoenix band there was Mattisson's voice. Just Mattisson.

Another voice broke in.

"Dragon Lead, this is Devil's Throne, urgent: security forces have held the reactor, but several external coolant valves have been breached. We estimate three minutes to meltdown without repair, and our engineers are working on it fast as they can. We have no backup power, repeat, we have no backup. What are your orders? Over."

"Evacuate."

The word was out of his mouth instantly. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Evacuate all non-combat personnel to the Angels, get them to minimum safe distance, then orbit and hold at the lowest zero-decay altitude. Hold the reactor online for two minutes thirty or as long as the engineers can keep it stable. Give the general order for exopacks on. All combat personnel are to man their vehicles and make minimum safe distance. Over."

He switched to the A.M.P and phoenix channels and ordered them to minimum safe distance, knowing that the A.M.P drivers would never reach it. Knowing that even if the Angels were launched _now, _they wouldn't make it either. Not if there was a full-yield explosion.

The rotors roared and his assault ship peeled off, heading as far away as the pilot could get. The base shrank in the rear camera.

A minute ticked by. A minute thirty.

The reactor complex bulged slightly, and for a moment there was a tiny sun visible, not yellow but white, blinding white.

Metal turned to liquid so fast it didn't have time to glow. A white arc of energy streamed up like long lightning, then wavered and collapsed. Even at distance, Hayes could see the pressure wave go through the base as walls started to rip at the corners, letting in atmosphere.

No explosion. Just a containment breach. The only good news so far.

The turrets went dead on their mounts, and the base went dark as the floodlights died. Points of brightness appeared at the head of the evacuees and on landing ramps of Angels. Within a few more minutes the engines were hot and the shuttles, crammed to bursting, lifted off.

"Dragon Lead, this is Devil's Throne. Evacuation complete. We are lifting off and headed up. Engineers have volunteered to lock down the reactor and are staying behind. Remaining pilots are on their way to minimum safe distance. Over."

Hayes checked the integral friend-or-foe tags.

A hundred and forty-four dead.

Two A.M.P drivers. Eighteen phoenix pilots. Eighteen security personnel. And a hundred and six non-combat personnel.

A hundred and _six._

* * *

Kel, blood-spattered and reeking of gunpowder, collapsed into one of the Angel's bucket seats, letting his crutch fall. Beside him, Strom breathed heavily, eyes slitted, clearly trying to resist throwing up. Around them both others were packed closer than the Angel should have been able to hold, murmuring and shifting in the red emergency lights.

Strom looked up for a moment, letting her breathing slow. They locked eyes for a moment, and smiled. Then she doubled over coughing again.

* * *

The damage was bad, but not impossible to repair.

Peter Emerson studied the reactor's damage with a critical eye. It would take time to repair, that was for sure, but if they kept the fleet up for defense they could have that. The external wall had been breached—melted to slag, in fact—and the containment shell as well, but for what was once such a complex machine a lot had been simplified. With replacement panels, they could have the reactor up again in a couple of days. The external walls would take more time, but that was just so much steel, and they could salvage that from throughout the base.

"Call it a class two, maybe class one?"

Peter turned to Wirth, the other engineer who'd volunteered to stay. He nodded.

"Class two, almost definitely. Only four panels need replacing, it's mostly a top breach." He knocked on one of the melted panels. "We get these fixed and run the mag containment, we could be up in a day, day and a half."

"Yeah, but how are we going to get the others back? No radio, remember?" Wirth shrugged. "They'll get back eventually, but it's going to be more than a day. Hayes wouldn't evacuate to orbit and then bring them back a few minutes later. He'll keep them there until he can be sure the base is safe, then set up a perimeter, then bring them back."

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. Wirth was right.

He looked up to the night sky where smoke gathered among the stars, wondering if he'd made the wrong choice. But there was work to do, and that left no time for wondering.

"Let's see if we can get to the A.M.P hangar and get the noncombat suits."

Wirth grinned. "Way ahead of you."

* * *

In the empty link room, the lights had died.

Cayce could hear her breath vividly in the exopack. She tried to think, but there were no words in her head. Only a blind, animal panic, something drawn from a source she had not known existed. Despite the pain and the resolution to survive she curled up sideways on the floor of the room, clutched her rifle, and waited for death.


End file.
